


Buried Coals

by Lady_Juno



Series: Tempered and Balanced [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Babies, Canonical Character Death, Cliffhangers, Don't mess with an angry mother dwarf, Dwarf Women, Dwelf Babies, Escape, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fiercer than Fire, Fix-It of Sorts, Gandalf Doesn't Stay Dead, Genderswap, Grief/Mourning, Imprisonment, Marriage Proposal, Meddling Elves, Meddling Wizard(s), Nightmares, Poor Elrond, Pregnant Elf, Pregnant Hobbit, Racist Dwarves, Reunions, Revenge, Rule 63, Rumors, Sequel, Stubborn Dwarves, Subterfuge, Suspense, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Trauma, Twins, Weddings, Wizard Fight, Worried Thorin, duels, fem!Bilbo, girl!Bilbo, lady!Bilbo, post-BotFA, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 47
Words: 259,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Juno/pseuds/Lady_Juno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>Fiercer than Fire.</i> </p><p>After the Reclaiming of Erebor, life was supposed to settle down. Things were <i>supposed to</i> be simpler once there weren't people trying to kill them and things trying to eat them and so on and so forth. Things didn't get any simpler, but after the whole Tauriel incident, and after Dain got the snot beat out of him, things seemed to settle a bit.</p><p>Billa should have known it wouldn't last.</p><p>This story is now COMPLETE.</p><p><b>UPDATE/DISCLAIMER/WARNING:</b> Also, <span class="u">Spoiler Alert:</span> We feel it only fair to alert all potential readers that this story contains grief and fluff, angst and happy moments, deaths and marriages. This is not a light or easy story, but we can promise it has a happy/bittersweet ending after the trauma has passed. Thank you for your patience and understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue; Billa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fears that can't be explained don't often leave quietly.
> 
> Written and edited by the Lady Juno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo is finished. Loki and I, unfortunately, didn't actually reach our goal. The final wordcount totaled at 43,542, a respectable chunk of text in anyone's book, I think. Regular updates may not start for a while yet, but I am proud to present you with the prologue. A teaser, if you will. :) Enjoy.

_There was new strength in his limbs, a deep awareness of the stone beneath his feet. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that there were at least 500 warriors before them, and thousands more waiting to take their place, should they fall. Even though the causeway was narrow, the stream clogged with bodies, the gate barricaded shut, in spite of all his preparations and caution, Erebor would fall._

_The halfling was still fighting. He could see her at the gate, hacking and slashing with her little sword, side by side with Dori and Bifur, defending the fallen body of Dwalin. His heart seized with pain, and he turned from the scene. The sounds of battle faded behind him, and he found himself in the Healer's Hall. Óin sported an ugly gash across his face, but was tending the others all the same. Balin, shuddering and coughing scarlet into his snowy beard, gnarled hands wrapped around the last of the orc arrows that had pierced him. Kíli, already lost to blessed unconsciousness, the stump of his arm bleeding through the bandages that concealed the lost limb. Bofur, his complexion more grey than tan, hands shaking as he forced a thick needle through the flesh of his own leg, pulling closed the ragged lips of the wound which still wept black icor. Fíli, who didn't appear to be breathing, propped up against the wall. Óin hadn't gotten to him yet. Most of his scalp was missing._

_If the orcs reached the Healer's Hall... no,_  when _they reached the Hall. There were too many. Already, he could see the atrocities they would wreak upon the wounded. Hacking, biting, tearing, ripping, burning. Little Ori, cradling her tiny newborn in the far corner - she would get the worst of it. She wasn't yet injured. They would take their pleasure of her, then... he shook his head. The tales that came out of orc-camps were terrible, and he didn't doubt the truth of them._

_"Thorin, we won't have much choice," murmured Óin. "The fighters at the gate will fall soon. We can't defend them forever."_

_He had made an oath to his sister - he would NOT let her sons fall to these monsters. There was no one left to defend them. He could only give them the last rest, the peace of death. And did he not owe the same to the rest of his Company? Would that he could have spared those at the gate, too._

_He drew his sword, and for once, Orcrist was heavy in his hand. It was as though the weapon knew that it was to drink the blood, not of enemies, but of dear friends and kin. A "mercy kill," they called it. It was merciful, he thought, only to those who died._

_Kíli was the first to feel the sharp blade, and his brother soon after. Their deaths were quiet, and he felt almost relieved to have it done. Balin was next, and though the old dwarf said he understood, there was fear in his eyes as he submitted to death. What waited for them on the other side? Better than what waited for them here, he hoped._

_Bofur was something more of a problem. He begged to be spared, delirious with pain. The king's hand shook as he ran the dwarf through, silencing him forever. Óin died quietly, grateful for the release. Only Ori was left. She and the tiny infant cowered before him, pleading, weeping._

_"Let me hide. Let me run away. Please. I'd rather face the orcs than die here. Please. Don't kill me. My son - spare my son."_

_Would that he were deaf to her cries. He lifted his sword, and suddenly, she was running away. Out, through the door, into the hall. He followed, calling for her to come back, but Ori either wouldn't listen or couldn't. Sobbing for breath, clutching the child to her bosom, she ran, fleeing straight into the tide of orcs that swept toward them. The babe was ripped from her arms, and he could hear her tortured screams-_

"Billa! Billa, wake up!"

She thrashed wildly, the blanket tangling around her body, binding her, choking her. The orcs! The orcs were coming, and it was her duty, she had to-

"Billa."

The halfling blinked, shaking and panting. In the half-light of the dim chamber, she could see Thorin's eyes gleaming at her, his aquiline nose, his short beard. No orcs. No Ori - and that had been ridiculous anyway. Ori didn't have a son. And besides, Dain would have defended the Mountain with his life. Where had he been, and his soldiers?

"Are you alright? You... you were screaming." Thorin sounded a little shaky himself. Billa forced a short laugh, but it sounded hysterical, so she gave up.

"Nightmare." She ran her hands over his arms, his neck, his face. He was alive. He was okay. "I was you. The Mountain was under attack. The orcs were going to... I couldn't let them. I had to..." She trailed off. She didn't want to remember.

"It was just a dream," he assured her, one hard arm wrapping around her waist. "You're alright. You're safe here."

"It's not me I'm worried about."

"It never is." She felt his deep voice vibrating through her bones as he held her close, and relaxed slightly.

"If it was, then I can imagine a few things that would have turned out a little differently." Billa even managed a smile.

"But they didn't. Go back to sleep, Billa." She could tell he was relaxing again, and wished she could see well enough to know if he was smiling.

"I'll try." Maybe neither of them would sleep for a long time, but as long as he was there with her, then the night was friendlier. "Just don't leave me."

"I don't plan to. Ever."


	2. Arrival; Billa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family reunion, of sorts.
> 
> Written and edited by the Ladies Juno and Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping you guys are all okay! Still not sure when updates will be regular, but Loki is back from the UK now, and production is back on the fast track. Hoping to buckle down to weekly updates next month. :) In the meantime, enjoy chapter one!

The gates were nearly complete. One of the massive bronze doors had already been replaced. The other was missing entirely, the metal being melted down and painstakingly reforged into the huge panels that would be pieced together once they'd been transported here. Thus, standing in the entrance hall, the nobles of Erebor were subject to a bitterly cold breeze.

 _Why,_ Billa wanted desperately to ask, _is your sister insane enough to travel in the middle of winter, just to get her a few weeks early?_

Of course, if she had been the one receiving word from her miraculously triumphant, miraculously _living_ brother, then she probably would have set out the very next day, midwinter storm or no. But she didn't dare say anything of the sort. Dain and his most trusted officers stood about them, and Thorin stood beside her, clad in the deep blue velvet Dori had crafted for him - a new tunic, for this very occasion.

The halfling shifted slightly, letting out a soft huff of discomfort. It was cold, her knees ached, and breakfast had been hours ago. She was hungry. Not that any of that mattered, she reminded herself sternly.

_If I'm going to be a queen, I need to do it correctly._

A brassy horn call heralded the final approach of the travelers. At the head of the procession was a regal-looking female in sturdy skirts, at least, Billa _assumed_  she was a female. She'd never seen a male dwarf wearing skirts. But this female had a much thicker beard than Ori ever had. It was dark and short, like Thorin's. In fact, if it hadn't been for the slightly reddish tint to her facial hair, Lady Dís might have been her brother's twin.

"My king." The lady bowed deeply (because dwarves never curtsy, apparently) and there began the intricate dance of formal greetings that ever seemed to take much longer than necessary.

"Princess Dís." Thorin took his sister's hand, smiling faintly. For someone seeing close family again after so many months and all that had happened in the interim, Billa thought him rather reserved in his greeting. But that was dwarven custom. If there was to be any emotional display, it would not happen here, before the eyes of Dain and his officers.

"You must be weary. Come, we will speak in the dining hall. The fires have been lit."

Dís' lips twitched slightly, and she nodded. Turning to her followers, she made a short gesture. It must have been an order of some kind, because several of her cohort moved forward then, depositing small chests and heavy bags at Thorin's feet.

After several more formal greetings, Dís and Thorin turned in unison and moved along the hall. Billa stayed at Thorin's left and concentrated on keeping up with them without breaking into a jog.

"You must tell me, Brother, of your journey. My son has told me but little." Her words caught Billa's attention and she stumbled slightly. Dís had seen Kíli? Had she brought him back? What about Tauriel? Had Dís... well, the possibilities were endless, as well as potentially unpleasant. The halfling kept her mouth shut for the time being.

"Much has happened, Sister." Thorin's tone was somewhat evasive. Billa knew he'd tell her as little as he could get away with. "Much that was unexpected, not all of it... unpleasant."

They entered the dining hall, greeted by soothing warmth and the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread. It was fortunate that news of the princess's coming had reached Erebor in time to give Bombur and his assistants a head start.

While still sparsely adorned, the hall was spacious and grand, the two hearths alive with golden flame, casting a cheery light upon the floor and walls. Repairs had been made in record time, all signs of Smaug erased. It would be some time, however, before the same could be said of the rest of Erebor, which suffered far worse during the dragon's long stay.

Thorin guided the two females to a long wooden table near the more central hearth, and once all were seated, graced his sister with the genuine smile he'd denied her earlier.

"Sister, I must beg your pardon in not sooner introducing you to Miss Billa Baggins, a most estimable halfling from the Shire. She was the burglar Gandalf brought to my attention during his visit those long months ago, and it is her courage and loyalty we have to thank for all that has returned to our keeping." _And some things that have gone from it._

Billa could see the thought on his face, plain as day. And it had indeed been a happy day. The halfling smiled as she remembered it. Two important things had happened. Thorin had succeeded in throwing the Arkenstone into the Lake, thus proving himself free of its influence. Billa herself had failed (quite spectacularly) at throwing her Ring into the Lake as well. That event hadn't been so happy.

The halfling felt her face growing somewhat warm at the thought, and hoped it didn't show too much. Or, if it did, Dís thought nothing of it. As it was, the incomparable dwarrowdam was gazing intently at her, her eyes fixed upon the silver bead that hung by her ear. Billa realized the silence between them must have stretched longer than she'd thought.

"It's an honor to meet you at last. I've heard much about you."

"And I, of you," Dís replied, somewhat coldly.

Bombur approached with a tray of hot stew, sliced, buttered bread, and a bottle of ale. He served them quietly, slowly, favoring his left side. His injuries had been grave, and were not fully healed, but he'd refused Óin's orders for bed rest.

While they ate, Billa enthusiastically, the others less so, Thorin provided a brief telling of the quest, emphasizing at all points his burglar's contributions and completely omitting the incident with the trolls. It was as though he were trying to justify his favor for the halfling to his sister, justify her place at his side from a completely practical standpoint.   
When he reached the part about Laketown, he hesitated, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

Billa had stopped eating, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth. Anxiety thrilled through her. What was he going tell his sister? Surely not the details of the night.

Thorin cleared his throat. "In Laketown, we were given a grand feast, during which time... Billa and I..." His solemn façade fell away for an instant with an embarrassed smile, which he tried unsuccessfully to hide behind a hand. "It was determined Billa was my One."

Realizing that she'd been holding her breath, the halfling shoved the spoonful of stew into her mouth. Thorin's embarrassment was endearing in ways he'd probably never appreciate.

Dís had remained quiet and seemingly unmoved during his tale, but at that point, the dwarrowdam's austere expression melted into a faint smile. She took her brother's hand and pulled it away from his mouth. Her eyes were blue-grey, Billa noted. Like Fíli's.

"It's been too long since I've seen you smile, Brother. It's a welcome sight." She glanced at Billa, and the hobbit bowed her head diligently over her nearly-empty bowl. "I find it interesting, though, that in all this, your One offers no defense on her own behalf."

When she lifted her curly head, Billa frowned at Dís. "I didn't know I'd done anything that needed defending."

Thorin looked somewhat confused. "What do you mean, Sister? Explain yourself." Was it the incident with the Arkenstone? Had Kíli told her about it?

"Clearly, you feel the need to prove to me that she's worth my approval. You've spent the majority of your tale extolling her virtues, Brother. By your account, you would have failed your quest many times over without this halfling. Why then, does she not feel the same?" Dís lifted a braided eyebrow, her gaze shifting between Thorin and his chosen wife. Billa shivered slightly, but answered anyway.

"It's Thorin's choice, not yours. I don't have to defend his decision. I would, however, like to be your friend, if you'll let me."

Dís seemed to consider these words while Thorin made a show of sipping at his wine and keeping out of the discussion. Billa, he seemed to understand, would have to develop and define her own relationship with Dís, and no words of his would change that.

The dwarrowdam's reply came at last. "My friendship is earned, not granted for the asking." Dís wasn't completely immune to Thorin's pleading blue gaze, however, and her face seemed to soften. "But for my brother's sake, and the sake of my sons, you have my gratitude, and my respect."

The halfling nodded slightly, then sighed, lowering her gaze. What could she say that could possibly bridge the gap between them? They were of different worlds, and there was no Quest to bring them together, as had been the case with her friends in the Company.

"I... I don't know if I can ever earn your friendship. I'm not especially charming or talented. Thorin's biased, but Balin and Dori can tell you, I'm hopeless at most dwarven customs." She paused to give the dwarf king and helplessly fond look. "I was never cut out to be important. If I'm going to be what he wants me to be," she glanced at Dís and smiled tensely, "I'll need your help."

"You shall have it." Dís's answer came readily, and Thorin seemed to relax a little. "For the sake of Erebor, all must work together in the capacity best suited for them." She turned back to Thorin, as though the conversation with Billa was quite settled and done.

"Brother, tell on. I want to know, in particular, how it came about that you allowed my youngest to wed an elf."

Thorin seemed doubly discomfited, and had taken a sudden interest in his food, if only, Billa suspected, to allow him more time to think before he responded. "Your sons have come of age, and must be allowed to do as they choose," he said, staring intently into his stew. "Kíli did not ask my approval or blessing, and if I seemed to approve of the match, it was only because to do otherwise would have caused strife to no purpose."

"Ah." The indomitable female was staring at her brother, as though sincerely attempting to burn a hole in his skull with nothing but her eyes. "And... what do you anticipate you will do with the _product_ of their union?" Her question was so pointed, it was a wonder it hadn't drawn blood. It took Billa a minute to understand her meaning, though. Thorin seemed to still be processing when she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"She's _pregnant?_ I thought Elves... and Dwarves... I mean... _how?_ "

Dís' expression was unforgiving, but her simmering frustration seemed rather to be directed to the world at large, rather than focused on Billa, for which the halfling was grateful. "I don't pretend to know the secrets of how such things work. I only know that the she-elf looked rather rounder than her folk tend to be." Dís gestured, somewhat indelicately, to indicate a considerable swell of the stomach.

Thorin shook his head slowly, looking as if he'd never even considered the possibility this might happen. "So... it would seem their union is not against nature, then."

A shade of relief trickled into his features, and he remembered Dîs's question. "What do I propose to do? Nothing. The half-elf child is not my concern, but Kíli's. For my part, though, I would welcome your son and his family to my halls, when the time is right. He is not the only son of Durin who has chosen outside his own race."

Dís grunted softly, as though to say she would withhold judgement for the time being. Thereafter, the meal was practically peaceful. Billa nudged Thorin's foot under the table and mouthed a silent 'thank-you' to him. His only response was to roll his eyes. At least he was in a good humor. He even pushed his half-finished bowl of stew across to her place when Dís wasn't looking. He'd apparently seen her quietly scraping her bowl of the last morsels. Billa gave him a sheepish smile. It was likely one of the many effects of settling down again, not constantly traveling, fighting, and running for her life; her appetite had increased considerably, and she was well on her way to regaining the weight she'd lost during the Quest. She was beginning to feel like a proper Hobbit again.

"I noticed my elder son wasn't at the gate to greet me." Dís' voice broke the silence unexpectedly. "Where is Fíli?"

"In the healers' hall." Thorin indicated the general direction. "Ori was injured in a visit to the mines yesterday. Bofur found a new seam of gold, and she wanted to see it."

Dís' brow furrowed. "Ori? One of those in your Company? You took a dwarrowdam with you, Brother?"

Thorin finished his wine, looking rather as though he was beginning to need it. "Her brothers brought her along for safe keeping. We did not know she was a dwarrowdam until midway through the quest."

"In Mirkwood, actually," added Billa with a smile. "So it was more than midway through. Now that I think about it, she really just stayed on the outskirts of the Company before that."

Dís lifted her eyebrows slightly. "And after?"

"Well, after that, she and Fíli started getting pretty close." Billa found herself thoroughly enjoying the memories. "Nothing really happened until Laketown, though. Nori tried to beat him a few times. But after Smaug, things worked out." She knew she had a smug look on her face, but didn't particularly care to hide it. Among Hobbits, the skill of a matchmaker was highly prized, and she didn't at all regret pushing them together.

Dís seemed equal parts startled and upset. "And my son said nothing of this in his letter. Is there anything else he has been keeping from me?"

Thorin glanced forlornly at his empty mug. "Perhaps you should ask him yourself."

Dís stood, made a quick bow to Thorin, and strode quickly from the room, evidently to do just that. A beat of crackling silence.

Thorin sighed, slumping a little in his chair. "I think that went fairly well." There was, perhaps, a touch of irony in his tone.

After taking a moment to finish his stew, Billa set her spoon down and pushed herself out of her chair. When Thorin looked like that, chin lowered and hair hiding his face, she felt as though she might lose him again. A ridiculous fear, but one she acted on nonetheless. At least while he was sitting, she could do something about it.

His shoulders were hard with muscle and tense under her hand as she slid her arms around his neck. "Nothing she's worried about can't be mended quickly enough. You did really well, I think, especially considering she's a mother-in-law twice over now." She chuckled, trying to coax him into relaxing. "If my mother found out I'd gotten married and not told her, then I think she probably would have made me into a pie and served me to my husband." She poked his nose gently, pleased to see a twitch in the corner of his mouth, a slight crinkle to his eyes. Billa still treasured his smiles. They were rare, though not as rare as they had once been.

"Did you get enough to eat? The way you hand off your food to me, I'm starting to worry you'll starve yourself."

"No fear of that," Thorin assured her, visibly relaxing. Her touch, it seemed, was one of the few things that could so quickly put him at ease. "My sister seems hard and forthright, but she is kind at heart. She just needs time to adjust to all that has changed. Until then, I fear Fíli may get the worst of it."


	3. News; Dís

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís confronts her son about this female he's going to marry, and learns more about affairs in Erebor. Dís is not a happy dwarf.

The corridor was long, dim, high-ceilinged and badly scarred. Dís found her gait slowing in spite of her intense desire to see (and confront) her elder son. The damage wreaked by Smaug since her last visit to this place was everywhere. Statues demolished, pillars toppled, arches broken. Deep gouges in wall and floor from talons larger and longer than she could have believed, had she not seen them arranged at Laketown's bridge. Claws and teeth only, of course. The rest of the huge carcass was stuck fast in the frozen mud of the bank, a lingering horror, even in death.

A rune carved over the doorway to her left marked the Healer's Hall, and Dís entered slowly, her steps now heavy. Almost two centuries since she'd seen this place, and then she'd been but a babe in arms.

"Mother?" Fíli's voice pulled her from her reverie, and though his startled face reminded her of why she'd come, she couldn't help the way her breath stopped in her lungs, and her heart stood still. Her little boy, so strong, so grown up. There was a faint pink scar along his cheekbone - it would fade with time, but Dís could imagine the weapon that might have put it there.

"My son," she whispered. It was a struggle not to take him in her arms and hold him to her heart until the Great Remaking of Arda at the End.

Movement in the cot beside her dwarrow attracted the lady's gaze, and she found herself looking on a scantily-bearded female, with a soft face and large, doleful brown eyes.

"And this, I presume, is the female your uncle spoke of?"

"I'm Ori," the slight dwarrowdam managed faintly, trembling a bit beneath Dís' scrutiny. Her arm was bandaged, and Óin had been in the process of changing the bandages on an angry red gash above her left eyebrow, but had moved deferentially away at Dís's approach.

"Mother, I..." Fíli paused, and Dís could see him gauging her reactions, watching her expression minutely. "I'm sorry. I meant to tell you in the letter...." His thumbs were hooked over his belt, his fingers tapping nervously at the metal plates riveted to the leather. "She's my One."

"So I see." Dís' gaze flicked up to her son's face, then down to his belt, and again to the female beside him. A heartless, calculating voice told her those eyes were weak. Ori was small, soft, and cowardly, frightened even by the presence of another dwarrowdam; her equal, by all rights.

_But it wasn't always that way._ She could be forgiven that, at least. Dís was aware her own presence could be intimidating. She had worked hard to cultivate it.

A gleam of silver in Ori's hair - a bead. Like Billa's it was only an engagement bead. None of them were properly married. Perhaps they had decided to wait until the kingdom was restored, or at least until Thorin had been officially crowned. That both pleased and irked her. Her eyes traveled up to meet Fíli's again.

"We have much to talk about. Now, I think, is not the time, nor is this the place. I will see you this evening, in private. I have news concerning your brother."

Fíli's eyes widened. "Is he alright? Did he... make it to Ered Luin?" A note of distress crept into his voice. His mind was clearly scrambling to all kinds of unpleasant conclusions and possibilities.

Ori reached out with her good arm and touched his hand, looking equally concerned.

The interaction between them, this little exchange of comforting glances, reminded her so powerfully of another time and place that Dís was nearly dizzy with it. She shook her head to clear it, and Fíli made a choking sound. Clearly, he'd misinterpreted the gesture.

"He arrived safely. Unharmed, even. More must wait until this evening."

Fíli was visibly relieved, and took Ori's hand, nodding at Dís. "Alright. I'll... see you tonight."

The dark-haired dwarrowdam turned away, hands clasped before her. When she reached the door, she stole one final glance at her son, wondering at how he'd changed. So serious. Like his brother, no more the laughing, joking, sparkling-eyed youngster. There was the grimness of one who had suffered, one who had had to face the painful reality of loss and death.

He had come of age, and as much as she'd once chided the brothers for their games and antics, now she found half her heart wishing their youth had not been stolen away from them so soon. They were still very young.

Dís walked slowly back the way she'd come, keeping her eyes on the toecaps of her boots as they flashed in and out of view under her skirts. This wasn't what she'd expected. She wasn't sure what she _had_ expected, but that was normal. Still, both her sons and her brother had found the wives which would stay with them forever. She hoped. The halfling and the elf, no matter how loyal... were not Dwarves.

Deep in thought, the dwarrowdam's feet carried her unseeingly through halls and passages, around corners until, at length, she realized with start that she hadn't even the faintest clue where she was. Dís glanced around at the doors that flanked her, up and down the corridor, but to no avail. She was alone.

She didn't remain so for long, though. The creaky shuffling of leather boots announced the approach of a dwarf moments before he rounded the corner, and he pulled up short before Dís.

"Oh. Your Highness." He bowed, slightly out of breath. His hair was solidly grey, but well-kept, implying that the color had changed rather early, as it hadn't yet taken on the grizzled appearance most older dwarves tended to have. "Glad to have found you." The meticulous dwarf rubbed his hands together, looking moderately excited. "If you'd like, I'll escort you to the guest chambers. All cleaned up and fit for a... well, a _princess._ "

Dís nodded slightly, her hard gaze sweeping over him. She recognized his braids, and knew his accent to be pure Blue Mountains, but couldn't remember his name.

"I didn't know anyone was looking for me. My apologies for inconveniencing you." Offering him a slight bow, she indicated he should lead the way. "You are one of my brother's companions, yes? What can you tell me of the halfling?"

The dwarf seemed a little intimidated, but Dís was quite accustomed to that. "Billa? Oh, yes. She, uh... well. Billa has a tendency to surprise us. She's spirited, and clever. Resourceful. Made a few mistakes here and there, but no one's perfect. Without her, I dare say we'd have been lost many times over."

He tugged on the large metal band clamping his fastidiously braided and arranged beard, glancing nervously at the dwarrowdam as they proceeded down a side passage. "It's just a bit further this way, Your Highness. We've lit the fires, changed the linens, and," here he looked immensely pleased with himself, "brought several bolts of the finest silk so that Your Majesty might select what she prefers for her gown."

"Gown?" Dís frowned upon such needless extravagance, but decided to give him a chance to explain.

"For the Coronation, Majesty. I've already finished what the king is to wear, and I thought it would be fitting to see that all members of the royal family are dressed, erm... to match. Apologies for being a pest about it so soon after you've arrived, but the more time I have to work, the better the finished product will be."

"Ah." A look of satisfied comprehension crossed Dís' face. "I remember you. Dori, son of Tirg. Your father was skilled with fabric." The memories weren't the clearest, but from the way Dori's chest swelled, she was on the right track. "And your mother - a jewelry smith, if memory serves. You represent them well." The dwarf looked fit to burst with pride. She allowed him to bask in it for a while before speaking again.

"And my son's chosen One, she is... your sister?" Their braids were similar enough, and she noted Dori's nose was much the same shape as Ori's had been. Not to mention the names. Not hard to identify related Dwarves.

Dori hesitated. "Er, yes. Yes, she is. There were three of us who set out with the king. But Nori... we lost him in the Battle." He looked away sharply, clearing his throat. When he turned back, his expression was slightly strained. "Your son. Fíli. He's a good dwarf. I believe he will care for my sister as my brother and I once did." That, from an older brother, was high praise indeed.

A moment of understanding passed between them outside the door, and Dís' expression softened. "I recall Thorin said the same of my One, many years ago." The only girl, youngest of three, fiercely protected and unwillingly released. "You didn't let her fight." It wasn't a question. Middle child, wild brother, lost to battle, never to return. Dís felt the piercing ache of grief and turned her face away from her companion. So much had been lost. But she still had her sons and her brother. She was a daughter of Durin. She would survive.

"Show me your silks, son of Tirg, and we will discuss the Coronation."

* * *

Dinner was quiet, formal. It differed from lunch only in that meat was added to the menu, and Fíli, Ori, and Dain were present. Thorin was reserved, but seemed to be in good spirits, and Billa's appetite, as ever, was hearty.

Fíli rushed through his food and spent the rest of the meal staring expectantly at his mother while Ori, in turn, stared expectantly at _him._ No one seemed particularly eager to speak of more personal matters at the table.

Finally, Dís had finished, and Fíli seemed unable to wait any longer. He nudged her arm. "Mother," he said quietly, "what news of Kíli?"

Dain shifted a little at the end of the table, but his expression remained as inscrutable as before. He went on eating, apparently unconcerned.

"My request, Son, was for a _private_ meeting, if you recall." Dís' tone was chiding, but she could tell everyone at the table was listening intently. Even as Fíli and Ori looked breathlessly expectant, so did Billa, who was deftly pretending she wasn't just finishing her third helping of stew. "Kíli arrived safely in Ered Luin with his... fair companion. Any more that needs said can be said in private."

Fíli nodded, looking a bit embarrassed. "Of course. I'm sorry, Mother. I'd forgotten." He turned away.

The table descended into complete silence, no longer broken by the quiet murmurs of conversation between Billa, Dís, and Thorin.

A slight movement attracted her attention. Ori's arm moved slightly, her hand under the table. She could assume that the younger female was taking her son's hand, trying to soothe him. The poor young thing didn't seem to know what to do. Reassurance of Kíli's safety hadn't been enough to allay his fears. Clearly; Dís would not have "news" unless something was amiss. She would not desire to speak with him in private unless that "something" were particularly troubling.

All these thoughts were as plain as day on the blond's face, and his mother sighed quietly. Not that it wasn't good for him to learn a little patience, and not that it wasn't entertaining to watch him learn the lesson the hard way, but she didn't like to see him so upset. Fíli cared too deeply about his brother, and had obviously not quite let him go yet.

When, at length, supper had finished and wine and tea had been cleared away, Dís nodded slightly to Fíli and Ori. While it would have been nice to have Thorin along, it wouldn't be meet to invite the entire party and exclude Dain. Their iron-willed cousin would have to wait until she was more sure of what Fíli had meant when he written that Dain and Kíli "weren't beating the same metal." Obviously the two wouldn't agree, but had it been merely his choice of lifemate, or something else?

"Will you have time to talk tomorrow?" The question almost didn't catch Dís' attention, but the dwarrowdam glanced down at the halfling when Billa caught her sleeve gently.

"If I have time, I will find you," Dís agreed diplomatically. It would be good to get to know her new sister, even if she didn't like the halfling very much. "Son, come. We have much to speak of."

Fíli was standing by the door, and when Ori made to shuffle away, Dís shook her head slightly. "You may come also, Daughter. Some of what will be said concerns you."

Ori perked up a little, clearly pleased to have found some measure of approval in her soon-to-be mother-in-law's eyes. When the three had returned to the guest chambers, Dís closed the door and paced across the room to the hearth. She remembered the chill of Erebor's stone corridors in winter from her youth; it was something that took some getting used to.

Fíli seated himself on a stone ledge near the fire. "So Kee's alright... but something's happened. What's going on, Mam?"

"You brother's fair friend is... rather more fertile than was suspected." Dís gave her son a faint, somewhat strained smile. "When they arrived in Ered Luin three months ago, the elf was a little rounder than Elves usually are. When we parted some weeks ago, her condition was well on its way to being rather compromising. My party are all aware, and have been sworn to silence."

Fíli looked stunned. His mouth twitched open, then shut again. When he did finally speak, his voice was quiet, incredulous. "Tauriel...? I don't believe it. How could he-? But that's.... that's impossible. Isn't it?"

"Clearly, it isn't impossible. Unless, of course, she's been having an affair with one of her elven friends." Dís looked grim. She didn't trust Tauriel, even if she'd found the she-elf to be good company.

Fíli looked uncertain. "I... I wouldn't think her the type, to be honest. She's been so uncompromisingly loyal. To Thorin, to Kíli. It's hard to imagine her... well."

"She'd never do that," said Ori, and the confidence with which she spoke was surprising, considering her timidity. "She loves Kíli too much to do something like that to him. He trusts her, and so do I. I owe her my life."

Dís sighed. "Yes, Kíli told me as much. And he mentioned that my brother owes his life to the elf as well." She knew her tone was disgruntled, and she had no business being so distrustful, but... "Wood Elves aren't exactly well-known for their dependability. As I recall, they have a habit of disappearing when they're needed, and appearing when they're not invited." Rubbing her temples, she sat down, her heavy skirts settling around her legs. "They decided to stay in Rivendell until the child is born. Travel was becoming understandably inconvenient for the elf when we left them, and the atmosphere in the Mountain was, as I understand it, less than welcoming."

Ori smiled, looking sincerely hopeful at this news. "Rivendell is a good place. We might even be able to go visit..." She trailed off under Dís' sharp gaze. Visiting the Last Homely House hadn't been on the agenda.

"Dain," said Fíli, apparently trying to change the subject. "He's made no secret of his dislike for Kíli's match. Kíli thought it best for them to leave, at least until after the Coronation. They're being cautious, I guess. But Dain's not been a problem. Not since the duel...."

Ori looked troubled. "Dwalin's _still_ not fully healed. He makes nothing of it, but everyone can see his shoulder still gives him grief."

"Duel?" Dís sat up straighter, tension coiling up her spine. "What duel?" Did no one see fit to tell her _anything_ of importance?

Fíli winced. "I didn't think you needed to... all in one letter...." He trailed off, seeming to have difficulty swallowing as he leaned away from his mother's intense gaze. "Dain challenged Kíli to a duel when he announced that Tauriel was his One."

Dís swore she felt the blood leave her face. "He challenged... when?"

"After the Battle." Ori's tone was meek.

"How soon?"

"A couple days," admitted Fíli reluctantly. Dís was outraged. She stood, all but ready to return the favor immediately, but her son caught her arm.

"Dwalin claimed the Right of Substitution. The duel's been fought, it's done. Dwalin won, and we haven't had any trouble from Dain since then."

Dís turned from thoughts of immediate action, but her rage remained. "He would challenge _my son,_ days after such a great battle, on a point that did not concern him in the slightest? What respect I had for Dain is gone. He will come to regret this."

Fíli shook his head. "Please, Mam. Don't dredge it up again. It's settled. Really. Dain's renounced his grievance, and we're moving on."

Dís stood very still as she processed this information, weighed her options. Fíli looked agitated, and Ori seemed practically terrified. It must have been bad, this vendetta of Dain's against her son. But they said it was done. Finished. Settled.

Inhaling deeply, the dwarrowdam sought to cool her anger. At best, she could dampen it. If Dain proved himself, perhaps she would forgive him.

"I will speak with him privately, when I have the chance," she said at length, and saw Fíli twitch.

"Mam, you don't need to-"

"I will decide what needs to," she informed him softly, and felt his hands loosen their hold on her arm. He remembered the tone well, and for this, she was grateful. On this subject, she didn't want to be opposed. Least of all by Fíli, who ought to have been as angry as she was.

The young dwarf lowered his golden head deferentially, as was proper. She would teach him to fear no one, especially jumped up cousins who had no right to challenge _her_ son. No matter how stupid his choices were.

"You must be tired, Mam," Fíli said finally, looking rather tired himself. "Ori and I will leave you to rest." He took the ruddy-haired female's arm, moving toward the door.

Dís felt a twinge of guilt, but knew it had nothing to do with Dain.

"Fíli. Son." He paused, turning to look at her. His expression was apprehensive, and she regretted having put that look in his eyes. He would learn. She would teach him. Until then, she would protect him. "I _am_ proud of you."

Fíli's stern countenance lightened, his mouth twitching into a brief smile. It was clear these words were precious to him.

Then he was gone. He and the young female who would soon be the most important woman in his life. Dís sighed, pacing to the bed and sitting. Her sons would be alright. She knew that. That didn't make the process of letting them go any easier, though.


	4. Tangled Lives; Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get complicated in the Mountain as dwarves settle in, and preparations are made for the coronation ceremony.

Thorin moved slowly down the hall, studying the papers in his hands with a furrowed brow. If Billa could see him, she'd probably have said he looked "grumpy," but that was just the halfling being herself. At the moment, she was three levels above and sleeping peacefully. Midday naps did her a lot of good.

Dragging his thoughts back to the new mine, he focused again on the parchment between his fingers. Figures and names and dates and estimates. His mind started to wander again as his ribs twinged. His wounds weren't completely healed, but he was at least more functional than Dwalin or Bombur (neither of whom would admit it). And it was thanks to an Elf. The thought never ceased to amaze him.

The rumble of voices caught his ear, and Thorin stopped mid-stride to listen. When he identified Dís' voice, his frown deepened. What was his sister doing down here? Following the sound down a side passage and past a large heap of rubble, he located the source - in a small antechamber, the door of which was still intact, there were the sounds of a muted conversation.

"It was an insult," Dís was saying indignantly. "But I'm willing to forgive it if you swear on your father's sealed tomb that you'll never harm either of them."

A sigh. "Princess, you know I would never do anything to harm our kin unless it was absolutely necessary. My grievance was legitimate, and has been legitimately settled. What more need be said?" Dain's voice was calm and cordial, his cadence unhurried. If Dís' manner was threatening, he didn't seem intimidated.

"I would like to believe you, Cousin, but your grievance was not legitimate. It doesn't concern you who he chooses to be his wife." Dís didn't sound convinced. "If you feel justified challenging him over such a thing, I don't know I can trust you not to do it again. I want your oath. Now. Here."

Thorin edged a little closer, tipping his head toward the door. Apprehension started to creep in slowly, infecting his thoughts. His sister meant well, but what sort of trouble could this stir up?

There was a long, tense silence. "Very well. You have my word and oath, Princess. I swear on the tomb of my father, Nain, I will do your sons no harm."

Thorin had no reason to doubt Dain's sincerity; no hint of guile or deception was evident in his voice, and the dwarf king had seen nothing but loyal service and sound guidance from him since the day of the duel.

"You know I am an honorable dwarf," Dain went on when no response came from Dís. "I keep the oaths I make. Rest at ease, and let that be the end of it."

After a long minute, Dís answered, and when she did, it was in a much softer tone, and with the rustling of skirts, as though she were moving. Closer, or further away, though? "This, I can believe. This, I trust, that you will uphold the traditions of our fathers, and that you will hold to your oath." There was another pause, and a quiet sigh. "Forgive me my... earnestness, Cousin. I didn't think-" and here, Dís' voice took on a slightly thick, shaky quality, that if he'd been looking at her, Thorin might have missed. "I dared not hope... that I would see them again. I thought, when they left, that was the end. My sons, my brother. To have them restored to me is a blessing I will never deserve. I don't want to lose them again. I can't be alone again."

The faintest whisper of flesh on flesh alerted Thorin to the fact that they were now holding hands. In what manner, or who had initiated it, he didn't know, but an anxious buzz thrilled along his nerves. What was going on?

"You don't have to be alone." Dain's voice, too, was softer. Gentler.

"You know not what you say." From her tone, Dís was trying to regain control, but hadn't yet succeeded.

"I do know," Dain assured her.

"My One is dead, Cousin." From the rustle of fabric, Thorin assumed Dís had pulled away. "You are not him. You never will be."

Another pause, and Dain exhaled heavily. "It was but an offer, Princess. Perhaps I've been too forward, but it has been made nonetheless, and I'll not withdraw it."

"I will... not forget it." It was terribly generous of her not to take offense, thought Thorin. If he were with them, he would have told Dain he was overstepping. Dangerously so.

Then the dwarf realized that the rustling hadn't faded, that boots were falling with new rhythm. They were moving toward the door - toward him. There was nothing for it but to stand his ground. Certainly, beating a hasty retreat down the hall sounded appealing, but there was no way he wouldn't get caught. So he folded his arms and arranged his features into a scowl, just as the door opened with a squeal.

Dís froze. She had been walking in front. Behind her, the grizzled, greying hair of Dain stuck up stubbornly in thin wisps, despite the apparent neatness of his dress and braids.

"Brother." Dís' eyes narrowed dangerously. "How much did you hear?"

Thorin's features tightened. Was Dís embarrassed? "I heard enough."

"My King." Dain spoke up, putting a hand out as though trying to halt the direction the conversation was going. "The Princess and I were merely... coming to an understanding. It is nothing worthy of Your Highness's concern."

Thorin's tone was cold, his eyes smoldering faintly. "Do not presume to know what is or isn't worthy of my concern. I am most definitely concerned in the matter of my sister's honor."

A strange expression flickered across Dain's face, and was gone again too quickly to read. Embarrassment? Anxiety?

"I was unaware, my lord, that anything I had said would be a threat on your sister's honor. I meant only-"

"I can defend my own honor, Brother." Dís' tone was hard, but she wasn't looking at him. Perhaps she _was_ embarrassed. "His offer was made without thought. It is forgiven."

"Without thought?" Thorin shook his head. "Since when has Dain Ironfoot done aught without consideration? Do you think him apt to make such a proposal lightly, on a whim?"

It deeply angered him, her dismissal of the offense. Dain scarcely knew her. What could he possibly mean by it?

"Perhaps it pleases me that he would think the offer worth extending." Dís was being foolish, stubborn, and contrary. Thorin clenched his jaw and prepared to say precisely what was on his mind when Dís bowed her head. "Forgive me, Brother. It was... unexpected. I will defer to your judgment."

Dain was quiet as the siblings spoke. Contrite? Possibly. He didn't withdraw his offer, though.

Thorin glanced at him, as though half expecting him to say something. When Dain remained silent, he began to wonder if he _was_ blowing things out of proportion.

"We will not speak of this again." Thorin offered an arm to his sister and escorted her down the corridor. Dain stayed behind, head lowered, evidently in shame.

When the two were decidedly out of hearing range, Thorin sighed, and with the release of breath went some of the tension in his body.

"You initiated this... meeting with him, Sister?"

Dís nodded slightly, her eyes downcast. At his urging, she recounted her anger the previous night at the duel she hadn't been informed of, and how she wanted to ensure such a thing didn't happen again. It was amazing how his sister, now nearly two centuries old, could still look and sound so much like a chastised dwarrow. Then again, she had been a long time alone. Her husband had died many decades ago, and it couldn't have been unpleasant for her to discover that she was still desirable.

"And are you considering his suit?"

The dwarrowdam gave him a very strange look. "My sons would never forgive me. I can't consider such a thing right now."

"But... if your sons were not your first consideration...?" The question surprised even Thorin. What did it matter if she might've chosen Dain in some other world where Fíli and Kíli's preferences did not affect her decision-making?

"I would consider it," she admitted, and there seemed to be some reluctance in her tone. A short pause hovered between them a moment. "He's not the only one that's offered, you know." Thorin felt the words like a punch to the gut. Had things changed so much since he left on the Quest? Or had there been others, and she'd just not told him?

They reached the guest chambers, and paused before the door.

"You're lonely, Sister. You have been for a long while." Thorin took Dís' hand. It was only marginally smaller than his, but more delicate. She was a better craftsman than he, and such beauty came from her fingers, he had marveled in his youth, and for a time, been jealous.

Víli had been a good husband, but so unlike his stern, sensible wife. Blond, bright-eyed, quick to laugh, Fíli was the spitting image of him, though his personality had been more akin to his younger son's.

Thorin had been the one to break the news to his sister that cold, hateful day some 70 years ago. He hadn't had to say a word. The heavily pregnant Dís had fallen into his arms, and he'd stayed with her through the night. Little Fíli, who'd only just begun walking, had sat by his mother, too, watching her intently, the firelight dancing sadly in his eyes. He couldn't have been old enough to understand, and yet... he did.

Dís' voice pulled Thorin back to the present. "I have you. And my sons. I am content, Brother. The loneliness returns at night only, and that... I can bear."

He nodded, but he didn't necessarily agree or believe her. Perhaps, he thought, it would be good for her to have a companion. One she could trust. Even if she would never find another love like what she shared with Víli... but wouldn't it only hurt all the more? If Billa died, no matter how lonely he was, would he ever be happy with another woman? However kind and smart and forgiving she was - she would never be his Billa.

"I'll see you at supper, I suppose?" There was nothing else to be said. Not right now.

The conversation had renewed his gratitude for the good fortune he'd experienced, and he decided he'd check in on Billa to make sure she was alright. She'd been a lot more tired lately, it seemed, than usual. Or perhaps that was just a hobbit thing, and she was returning to her normal schedule?

Softly, he entered the chamber they were currently sharing. The queen's chamber was still being cleaned, repaired, and furnished, so Billa was staying with Thorin for the time being.

The decor was spare, but nice, thanks to Dori, functional, but easy on the eyes. The bed had been hand-carved from cedar planks, harvested along with a great many of the other timbers needed for Erebor's rebuilding some months past, as were the two chairs before the hearth, and the various benches and tables. The fresh scent infused the air, driving away the staleness that had seemed so overpowering at first in the rooms longest sealed.

Billa seemed little more than a lump beneath a mountain of blankets. She _did_ tend to get cold far more easily than he did, especially here, on the upper levels. Her feet were always icy when he finally climbed into bed, but sharing his body heat was a small price to pay for having her safe in his arms.

Thorin moved softly across the room, though perhaps not as softly as he'd thought.

"Everything alright?" Billa spoke through a yawn, stretching her arms over her head. She looked well, her cheeks slightly flushed, the wrinkled print of a pillowcase on one side.

Thorin nodded. "I was just... looking in on you."

A smile spread over her round face, and he noticed again how her left cheek had a dimple, but the right one didn't. It was amazing, how much he was still learning about even the way she looked.

"I guess that makes me special, then." Billa pushed the blankets back and scooted toward the edge, clearly intending to get out of bed to join him. In that moment, Thorin made a decision, and like most of his decisions concerning his most precious hobbit, it was selfish. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled her into his lap, smiling slightly when she squeaked in surprise.

"Very special," he confirmed softly. She fit perfectly against him, her soft little body radiating comfortable heat as she pressed herself against his chest.

She'd changed his life so profoundly; he couldn't even imagine it without her in it. Couldn't imagine being king without her beside him. He kissed the top of her head through her thick, soft ringlets, inhaling the clean, earthy scent she seemed to carry with her constantly.

"What's gotten into you all of a sudden?" Billa sounded surprised.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not usually this... affectionate, so early in the day."

Thorin huffed a quiet laugh. "Stop trying to predict me."

"Not my fault you're so predictable," she teased, and pushed her head fondly under his chin. "You mentioned something about a mine when you left earlier. Did you find anything interesting?"

Thorin felt a bit guilty when he remembered that he hadn't actually gotten down to the new mine. Dís had completely distracted him.

"Something else came up. Besides, you're more important than a hole in the ground." The halfling started to quake with laughter, and he smiled.

"Oh, you." Billa gave him a hug and slipped out of his lap. "My inner clock says it's time for elevensies."

"I believe it's closer to the midday meal." Billa made a face that said Thorin's comment wasn't helpful, then gestured for him to turn so she could dress. It didn't take long for her to 'make herself presentable' and steer him out of their room and toward the nearest source of food.

"So... what 'came up'?" the hobbit asked curiously, looking up at him.

Thorin's lips tightened, and for a rather lengthy moment, he was silent. "Dís. A misunderstanding." He looked rather uncomfortable. "With Dain."

"Oh dear." Billa glanced up at him, her expression echoing his. Discomfort, concern, and a tiniest flicker of anger. "They didn't get into a fight, did they?"

"A fight?" Thorin seemed half amused by the thought. A fight between Dain and his sister would be truly terrifying. "No. Not a fight."

He briefly relayed the contents of the conversation he'd overheard, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "As I said," he concluded softly as they entered the dining hall. "A misunderstanding, and I hope, no more than that."

The halfling nodded slowly, and said no more as they sat and were served. It was indeed a lunch, though perhaps a little on the late side. The dining hall was nearly empty, and when the assistant cook shuffled off, leaving the royal couple to eat, Billa spoke very quietly, leaning toward him that they might not be overheard.

"Dain is a stiff old poker, but I can't imagine that he'd have made such an offer in anything but absolute seriousness. A confusticating problem, but easily enough fixed, if Dís isn't inclined to marry him."

"I just don't understand _why_."

"Why she doesn't want to marry him?"

Thorin shook his head. "No. Why he would make such an offer. Was it out of pity? Desire for companionship?" He lowered his voice considerably. Even with the fires' lusty crackling and the marked emptiness of the hall, it didn't feel right discussing such things in normal tones. "Does he imagine she might yet give him children?"

It wasn't out of the question, though the thought troubled Thorin greatly, for reasons he couldn't readily determine. Dís wasn't past the age yet. At least, he didn't think so. But Dain didn't require an heir; his wife - now long-departed - had taken care of that. Even now, his eldest son was managing the Iron Hills.

Perhaps it was hardest to comprehend because Dain was as practical a dwarf as ever there had been, each of his actions carefully measured, weighed, and calculated. Affection was not a sentiment he allowed himself; that he should have changed in that regard didn't seem likely to Thorin.

"It's possible he's lonely, just like Dís is, and found the arrangement... convenient." Billa's voice brought his attention back to the present, though he was a little puzzled by her tone. Was that distaste? Thorin glanced down at her and realized that almost half of her food was already gone. He'd not even started on his.

But then, he wasn't very hungry anyway. Funny how such disturbances so greatly affected the appetite.

"Perhaps." Thorin's reply was somewhat detached.

"Eat. You're making me look like a pig." Billa snatched up his spoon and pressed it into his fingers. Thorin took a pitiful bite and made a show of chewing.

"I've been thinking about the guest list for the Coronation," Billa announced after a minute of silence. "We have Lord Elrond down. And Beorn's kin."

"They won't come." Thorin's answer was decisive.

"Probably not," Billa admitted, "but it would seem a shame not to at least invite them. After all, we are so very grateful to them. I was thinking...." The hobbit hesitated, suddenly anxious. "What if we invited... Thranduil?"

Thorin choked on what remained of his obligatory mouthful of potato and gravy. " _What?_ "

Billa hastened to explain, making preemptive gestures to stall his arguments. "If it hadn't been for his actions, we'd have lost Lord Elrond and probably Tauriel, too, not to mention the tide of the Battle would have been much changed - he'll probably turn it down anyway. It just seems... well, it would be impolite not to at least write the invitation."

Thorin dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, looking slightly incredulous. "You would have _Thranduil_ within these walls? As an honored guest? What he did he did not do for my sake, or Erebor's, or that of any of its people. He saved his fellow elves. He secured his 'proper' share of the treasure. That was what concerned him."

He dropped the napkin, crumpling it beneath his hand. "It is possible for our two kingdoms to coexist without me being obligated to invite him to every celebration and social function. He will not feel snubbed."

"Thorin." Billa fixed him with a look that was very nearly pleading. "I asked him to come, asked for his aid when I thought you would die without it. He came. He mustered his kingdom, down to the last trainee, and marched through the night at my request." She paused, seeming rather more distraught than Thorin thought the situation warranted. "If not to the coronation, might I at least invite him to the wedding?"

Through the haze of stifled outrage and confusion, the dwarf noticed that Billa's words had become a bit more formal, as though she were trying hard to 'do things right' again. Thranduil, in his Mountain? The Oathbreaker, at his table? Honored, as a guest of the King Under the Mountain? The idea filled him with loathing, despite the relative peace (and complete noninteraction) that had reigned between the two kingdoms since the Battle had concluded. Thranduil, watching him accept the crown and swear to uphold his kingdom, was a mental image that was frustratingly distracting, to say the least. The thought of the Elvenking at his _wedding-_ it make him slightly sick.

"Billa… weddings are… _private._ I will not, under any circumstances, have an _elf_ present for my unity vows." Thorin managed to keep his voice relatively calm, but the words sounded a bit strangled. The hobbit regarded him apologetically, seeming genuinely contrite for having upset him.

"Then… you won't mind if I invite him to the coronation?"

It was almost tempting to deny her. He could see what she was doing. She was making him choose between inviting the stupid, tiara-wearing elf to his coronation, or inviting him to his wedding. Neither appealed, but he had to admit that at least his coronation would contain no proclamations of love or other such embarrassing matters.

"Fine. Do what you wish, but I'll have no part in it." Thorin turned away to stare down at his plate. The food didn't even smell good anymore. Two small hands wrapped around his upper arm and he felt Billa nuzzling him gently.

"You won't even have to see it. Thank you, Thorin."

* * *

It was several days later when he and Billa were again faced with the Coronation. At some point, it had taken on a will of its own, and now seemed to consume every aspect of life. The reality of it was becoming increasingly inescapable, cropping up in conversations and task lists more and more frequently. Today had been nothing but preparations, and now the two of them stood side by side in Billa's newly-cleaned and furnished chambers, faced with a frowning, grey-haired dwarf. Dori passed a slightly disdainful glance over Billa's midriff and shook his head.

"Have to make some quick adjustments," he muttered, rushing out with her dress in tow.

Billa glanced at Thorin and made a face. "He didn't have to be so displeased."

The dwarf couldn't help but chuckle at her indignant expression. She had been nothing but proud of her recent weight-gain, and Dori's reaction seemed to have put her out of countenance.

"He doesn't understand, that's all."

"You bet he doesn't. I'm an excellent size for a hobbit. Perfectly respectable."

Thorin sought an appropriate response. It was tricky, sparing feminine (and Hobbity) pride. "Very respectable, indeed." That seemed a decently innocuous reply.

Dori returned about an hour later, the gown suitably altered. "I let the waist out about an inch," he said. "That's the most I can do without completely remaking it. Try it on. We'll hope for the best."

The halfling looked a touch smug as she obediently tried on the garment. Dori, however, let out a despairing sound when he saw the waist of the gown was still a little too tight.

"Is this really necessary?" The grey-haired dwarf looked rather frazzled, raking his fingers through his hair and completely disarranging his braids. "I'm only half done with Lady Dís' gown and now-"

"Well, I _told_ you I was small when you started." Billa squirmed back out of the dress again, and Thorin kept his mouth shut. His tunic and robe had fit very well and needed only minor pinning around the shoulders.

"Yes, and I gave you _five inches_ to work with - and you've _still_ managed to out-grow it in six weeks!" Dori gathered up the gown like a fallen comrade. "If this continues, you'll start to look like Bombur."

"Nothing wrong with growing a little sideways," retorted Billa, but she did seem a little unnerved as the tailor left. She glanced at Thorin. "Is it really that bad? Be honest."

Thorin shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I thought it looked very flattering, but then... I am not a tailor." The only trouble he'd ever had with clothes fitting had more to do with his heritage than him growing between the time of the measuring and garment completion. Consistent with those of Durin's line, he'd always been markedly taller and slenderer than most of his friends and companions, so much so that on several notable occasions, he'd been mistaken for a human while seeking work in the villages of Men. His shorn beard hadn't helped in that regard.

"Perhaps Dori might be persuaded to let you wear it anyway. Unless, of course, it's too tight for you."

Billa hesitated a moment. "It wasn't, but Dori seemed to think I'd..." _keep gaining weight._ She seemed bothered by the unspoken words.

Thorin smiled faintly. "Not before tomorrow, I hope." Tomorrow. The word sent a sudden thrill of fear up his spine, and he looked away from the halfling.

There was so much to be done before then. The invitations had gone out a week before, but preparations were taking longer than anticipated. The Hall of Kings was even now being festooned, the seamstresses and weavers hired from Esgaroth frantically finishing the banners and tapestries, the dwarven smiths repairing, polishing, and rehanging the multi-faceted crystal lanterns. Thorin himself was putting the finishing touches on his crown, which had to be forged by his own hand, as was tradition. Billa's, too, he was in the process of designing, but it would not be required until the wedding.

Wedding. There was another rather frightening word. For different reasons, perhaps. He wondered if Billa felt the same way, and that made him even more nervous.

"You'll be alright, Billa." The words didn't necessarily follow the previous topic, but the hobbit didn't seem to notice.

"Of course I'll be alright. It's not _my_ Coronation, after all. I'm just a guest."

Thorin pressed her hand to his lips. "For now."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she scolded, but there was no authority in her fond tone. Perhaps, Thorin thought as his heart gave a little twist, she was actually looking forward to it. That would make it easier. Tomorrow was no less frightening, though.

"You're distracted," Billa observed with a smile, troubles already forgotten. How he envied her that. "I'll give you two hours to wrap up whatever project is taking your attention, and then I'm hunting you down. You promised to spend time with me tonight."

"I look forward to it, my fearless huntress." Thorin returned the fond smile, and it lingered as he walked quickly down the hall. A few minutes later, he was at the forge, his mind drifting above the heat and steam and the hammer's ring. It was automatic, and he enjoyed that.

Before he knew it, he'd finished the etching and burnishing, and set the last of the jewels. It almost surprised him, the masterful creation gleaming on his workbench, having taken effortless shape under his fingers. In a way, it had seemed too easy. He wondered if Thror had finished his own crown in just under six hours. Or if it had been a labor of days. Or weeks. Or months.

"Gotcha!"

Thorin jumped several inches off his chair, the crown flying out of his hands. It clattered to the stone floor with a metallic cacophony, and Thorin turned to look at Billa, one eyebrow raised. It seemed the "huntress" had, indeed, gotten him.

"Will you be doing this often?" He couldn't bring himself to be sharp with her, despite the potential harm that might have come from her little game. Perhaps in a few months, the charm of their new life would have worn off - but what did it matter? He wasn't upset.

"Only if it'll be normal for you to sit and stare at that thing without moving all the while I'm walking up. Come on, it's like an oven in here, and your two hours are up."

Thorin made a huffing sound, moving around the desk to retrieve the, thankfully, intact crown. "Would you believe I wasn't actually seeing it until about the last three seconds?"

"You're going to have to work on that." Billa tucked herself under his arm. As they walked out, Thorin carrying the crown, Billa wrinkled her nose. "Phew. Bath first. Then you're mine."

Thorin chuckled. "Oh, you don't appreciate the smell of hot dwarf?"

"Oh, no. I definitely appreciate hot dwarf-smell." The halfling flashed him a cheeky smile. "What I don't appreciate is hot metal, leather, and whatever you're burning in that forge. It smells like a dragon."

"Wood?" In other times and places, one might have laughed at the comparison. Here of late, it seemed everyone knew what a dragon smelled like. Among other unpleasant things Thorin didn't prefer to think about at present.

"Someday, perhaps, your memory will become less acute and my forge will no longer vex you. No self-respecting Queen Under the Mountain loathes metal-working." It was said with a hint of teasing, but he could tell it made Billa a little uneasy.

"Wood? Really? Strange. The smell of burning wood has never bothered me before." Billa frowned slightly, but the trouble seemed to pass quickly in light of more pleasant things. "After you wash up, I have a surprise for you. But you have to at least pretend to like it. I'll frown at you most severely if you don't. And maybe cry."

"In that case, I suppose you will never know for certain whether I actually like it or not."

Thorin parted ways with Billa temporarily, and emerged from the baths a scant fifteen minutes later, his wavy hair damp, but styled in its usual fashion. He found the hobbit waiting for him in his chambers, her face fixed (perhaps intentionally) in an unreadable expression.

Thorin approached her, arms crossed before him. "Well?"

Whatever the "surprise" was, it was likely important to her or she wouldn't have placed such importance on his liking it. He hoped it wasn't a prank. He'd had quite enough of those from his nephews, thank-you very much.

Billa waited until he was settled, then stood. Soundlessly, she moved to the bedside table and withdrew a small package from the drawer. When Thorin accepted it, he noted that it was very light. Carefully, under the halfling's watchful gaze, he opened it to reveal a necklace. A long, thick leather cord, and a pendant - it was a round leather-wrapped hoop supporting an intricate web of delicate string.

Thorin dangled it before his face, studying it closely. After a moment, he returned his gaze to the halfling's. She seemed very expectant, and he hoped his reaction wasn't disappointing her.

"It's beautiful. You made this?"

She flushed, smiling. Her pleasure was nearly palpable. "Yes. Bombur helped me a bit with the leather, but it's a... well, it's a Hobbit thing. The types of knots a Hobbit gives to another symbolize different types of love."

Thorin ran his hand over the web of knotted string. "And... what sort of love do these symbolize?" The knots were surprisingly complex, and he wondered when (and from whom) she'd learned to tie them.

Billa chuckled, shifting slightly. "As a general rule, the harder the knot is to untie, the deeper and more permanent the love is." She nodded to the pendant. "There are many, and they are small. You're never getting those apart." Thorin wondered if it would indicate the termination of a Hobbit relationship when one untied the knot the other had given. He certainly wouldn't be testing the theory.

Thorin nodded at her, his appreciation deepening. The gift was simple, and at the same time, very complex, laden with symbolism. He wasn't one to wear excess jewelry, but if the item was meaningful, he'd make exceptions. On the Quest of Erebor, he'd worn a key on a cord around his neck, a gift from his father. Now he'd wear a pendant, handmade by his One.

He slipped it over his head, adjusting the cord so it was visible between his collar and over the ties of his tunic.

"Thank-you, Billa." He picked up the pendant so it rested in his palm, then placed the hobbit's fingers over it and covered her hand with his other one. "I shall treasure it." Thorin smiled at her, and she beamed with happiness.

"You're not just saying that? You really mean it?"

"Of course I mean it. I've never been _that_ good at pretending."

She didn't have to agree quite so heartily. Still, she was happy, and there was little more he could ask. And now, he reflected, their engagement was official. He had given her a courting gift (a very traditional one, at that) and she had given him one as well, equally traditional in its own right.

"I love you," he whispered, and she nudged her way under his arm, pressing herself against his side.

"And I'll never forget it," Billa promised happily.

 


	5. Changed; Legolas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas travels to Rivendell by his father's request, and finds familiar faces that he thought were still in Erebor.

The mountains rose steeply ahead and to either side, and a flicker of motion above the path and to the left alerted the small party to the presence of others. The blue and black of a Rivendell Guard made the briefest appearance between the trees, and he was acknowledged with a whistling bird call from the party on the path.

Legolas listened to the subtle changes in his guard as they began to relax. Now that they were within Rivendell's outer borders, the likelihood of something going wrong was drastically reduced. Really, he would have liked to make the journey alone, but his father would hear nothing of it.

Not that the elf prince blamed him. Thranduil thought there was a chance he would sneak to Erebor for the Coronation, perhaps in the hope of seeing Tauriel again. When she and her dwarven companion had last been in the Woodland Realm, wild rumors of her marriage and unborn child had raged through the palace. Legolas shook his head in disgust. That his people - _her_ people - would spread such vicious tales was beyond his understanding.

A mellow horn call reminded him that they were approaching the hidden valley. "Form up," he ordered, though the command was superfluous.

White, gushing ribbons rushed down every side of the valley, or down stony channels wending betwixt the buildings, the sound mingling into a gentle watery murmur. It was exactly as Legolas remembered. It had been so long since he'd been here last; he'd been but an elfling at the time. Suffice it to say, Lord Elrond and King Thranduil did not see eye to eye on much. Thranduil's recent service to the Last Homely House's ruler, however, had mended many things.

Lindir met them at the staircase inside the entranceway, greeting the party with an elegant bow. "Welcome, Prince Legolas. My Lord Elrond is in his study, and asked that I convey you to the guest rooms. I will inform him you have arrived."

"Thank you."

The rooms were comfortably appointed, bright and airy, with windows opening out onto one of the wide, but peacefully flowing streams.

It was as Legolas moved to the window that he spotted them.

The dwarf and his former captain. Kíli was beside and slightly in front of her, holding her hand, and they were attempting to cross the stream. The water was up to Kíli's knees, but midcalf on the elleth.

"I have a bad feeling about this, Tauri. I mean, what if you slip? I might not be able to catch you." The words drifted to Legolas's ears over the gurgling stream, despite the fact that the two were facing away from the guest rooms. He scoffed to himself. It wasn't as though she were helpless, and he wondered why Tauriel allowed him to coddle her so.

He moved stealthily toward the door but paused when the elleth answered her mate in her quiet, smooth voice.

"You will catch me. Or if you dislike it so, you will find another crossing. But I _shall_ cross." Her tone was uncharacteristically stubborn, and the Woodland prince found himself hoping, in a childish, unbelieving way, that Tauriel had tired of the dwarf.

Kíli turned, and Legolas could see his face clearly. The young dwarf was so intent on Tauriel that the elf thought there was little chance of being noticed. But the look on his face - Kíli looked fondly exasperated, but had an expression of thinly veiled concern lurking behind his smile.

"Tauri...."

The red-haired elleth was already moving forward, tacking against the current, and Kíli had no choice but to follow. Tauriel's footing seemed uncertain, her movements strangely unbalanced. It wasn't until she turned slightly, presenting Legolas with a partial profile, that the reason was explained.

Her gaze was on the water, which was now up to her knees, intense with concentration. But it wasn't her face that held Legolas' attention. Her bosom was heavy and full, her stomach full, nearly to bursting with what could only have been an unborn child. She was, for lack of a better word, _big._

The prince had been blessed to see elf-children in the past. Once, he had even seen an elf-lady with child. It was so rare, such a thing was greatly celebrated. But even so, Legolas would have staked his future kingdom on saying that no elf he had ever seen had been so very... large.

As he thought this, Tauriel lurched awkwardly backward, clearly having just slipped. Kíli barely caught her, and only then with a great splash, the water up around his thighs.

"I told you-" he began, but Tauriel was giving voice to a string of curses Legolas was positive weren't in Elvish.

By the time Kíli managed to assist her back to shore, both were very wet. It seemed one poorly placed foot deserved another, and the current was swifter than it looked. Tauriel caught sight of Legolas. Her mouth fell open a little, her already flushed cheeks reddening further, clearly mortified.

So was Legolas. He began to stammer out a greeting.

Kíli cut him off. "Good fun, I guess, sitting back and watching us half-drown." His fringe, soaking wet and plastered to his forehead, was dripping into his eyes, and Legolas wondered if he could even see.

Unsure of whether to be insulted or ashamed, Legolas just shook his head and strode forward, catching Tauriel's other arm. Even with as little of her weight as she allowed him to support, it was obvious that the elleth was both much heavier and much less steady than she had once been.

"Come in and sit," he offered, and when the redhead turned a displeased, embarrassed look on him, he added, "please." Whether out of obedience or an actual need to sit was unclear, but Tauriel agreed. Kíli snorted quietly.

"Was beginning to wonder who taught you manners," the dwarf muttered uncharitably.

"Kee." Tauriel's tone of sharp disapproval cowed her mate, and Legolas felt a curious mixture of pleasure and shame. At least she still seemed to value him as a friend.

But that was a stupid thought. Of course she did. She'd said so many times - at their last parting, before the Battle, after the Desolation, in Laketown, before their initial farewell in the Woodland Palace. The prince's insides twisted with guilt as he helped her into a chair and turned to fetch blankets. She had never blamed or doubted him. Then again, he had never chosen anyone over her.

Tauriel accepted the blanket he offered, though Kíli insisted he was "fine," and continued to drip steadily on the mat by the door, arms folded before him. There was much of his uncle in the way he stood now, the set of his jaw, the sharpness of his gaze. He'd changed much from the gawky youngling he'd been in the dungeon of the Woodland Realm.

Legolas didn't particularly want to touch on a nerve at this singularly awkward moment, but... it was on his mind too heavily for him to simply ignore it. "When I heard the rumors circulating throughout the palace, I... I did not believe them. But it's true. You _are_ with child."

"How observant of you," the elleth muttered, pulling the blanket about herself as though she could conceal her new bulk. It didn't work.

"It can't have been that long since you two...." Legolas gestured nebulously, and for some reason, Tauriel laughed. It was a tense sound, but her laughter had been rare as a Guard captain and the blond elf was startled by the readiness of it. It seemed her mate wasn't the only one that had changed.

"It is possible that the union between a dwarf and an elf is not so... unnatural as some would believe."

"It's a blessing," said Kíli, and the words sounded so much like a challenge, that Legolas raised an eyebrow at him. Had the young dwarf encountered so much resistance that he felt it necessary to initiate hostilities?

"The Valar are with you, to be sure." The elf paused, wondering if he dared say what was on his mind. In the chair before him, Tauriel sank tiredly back into the cushions, and Kíli turned to track the motion, eye jumping over the great swell of her stomach. "Tauriel... this may seem indelicate, but I must ask. Aren't you a little _big_ for how recently the child was conceived?"

The elleth almost winced, and a shift of the blankets seemed to indicate she had put a hand on her belly. "Dwarrows are born larger than elflings." It was a statement, but a defensive one. Perhaps bringing it up had been unwise.

Legolas nodded. "I see. Forgive me, Tauriel. I did not mean to cause offense. I was just... curious."

"If you're done interrogating her," Kíli said irritably, "perhaps we might return to our chambers. We'll be needing to wash up and change clothes before dinner."

The elf prince slanted a peeved look at the dwarf, then returned his focus to Tauriel. "Go, then. I will see you soon."

There was more he wished to know, but it could wait until dinner. Or after.

* * *

Legolas was pleased, though perhaps not terribly surprised to find that he was to dine with his host, and Elrond's other honored guests - Kíli and Tauriel.

The meal was quiet, though the elven prince conversed lightly with the lord of Imladris. Kíli maintained his silence, and Tauriel spoke only when directly addressed. The elleth seemed strangely reluctant to eat her full portion, and Elrond repeatedly urged her to finish the salad on her plate, but Tauriel resisted.

"I'm not hungry."

"You should be eating more." Elrond's tone was gentle, but stern.

"I don't see why. I eat enough." Her stubborn words complemented by the cold anger in her voice. Legolas was frankly shocked by her attitude. Had she truly changed so much since leaving the Guard? He hardly seemed to know her.

"You know perfectly well why you should eat more," pressed Elrond, still as gentle as one could wish.

"I said I'm not hungry."

"You should feed _both_ of your children, my lady."

By the look on Kíli's face (something like the expression one might acquire after being hit over the head rather forcefully) he'd been no more prepared for this than Legolas had. And Tauriel - her eyes filled rapidly with tears, and she dissolved into quiet sobs.

Legolas exchanged a very uncomfortable look with Kíli, and the meaning that passed between them - not for the first time in their tenuous relationship - was that one of them should probably say something. The veranda was silent but for the oblivious chirping of the birds mingled with water-song, and Tauriel's quiet shuddering.

Kíli finally swallowed the bite of food he'd taken before Elrond's words had put dinner quite out of his head, and directed a stunned look at the elf lord. "Twins? She's having twins?"

Elrond nodded mutely, looking a touch remorseful. Perhaps he regretted not breaking the news to her sooner. How he'd known at all was anyone's guess.

"Why didn't you tell us last night?" Kíli asked, scooting closer to Tauriel and putting an arm around her. "You looked her over and said everything was fine. Normal."

"I... thought it better to let the lady realize for herself. I see now that I ought to have said something when you first arrived."

"You knew? All this time?" The dwarf's tone was now hurt. Betrayed. Tauriel said nothing, but pressed her face against her husband's hair. Legolas considered saying something, then decided that pretending not to exist was probably the safer course of action. It was deeply disturbing, unsettling, to see Tauriel so unstable.

Elrond's lips tightened slightly. Legolas could tell he'd not foreseen this reaction from the elleth, and that that fact itself bothered him.

 _Twins._ He felt a stab of jealousy at the thought. The dwarf prince would soon be a father twice over, the mother an elleth he himself had desired so many years and done nothing about, constrained by duties, by status.

No. _He_ should have been the father, and these twins his own. He could imagine this scene so differently, himself at her side, comforting her through her tears, reassuring her he'd care for her, care for their children. As it was, he was powerless to help. Unnecessary. Alone.

With great effort, he pushed these thoughts away, unwilling to give himself over to the whirlwind of pointless regret. What did it matter now? What was done was done.

Tauriel pushed Kíli away after a moment and stood. Legolas actually prepared to stand, concerned. Even as the dwarf got to his feet, Tauriel shook her head, one hand pressed tightly to the side of her swollen stomach as she stumbled slightly.

"You'll please excuse me," Tauriel murmured distractedly, heading toward the archway leading off the verandah. Kíli started to go after her, but she turned an adamant expression on him. "I need a few minutes."

Defeated, the dwarf sat down again, watching her until she was out of sight. Shaking his shaggy head, he hunched toward the table. "What have I done?"

Had his hearing been any less keen, Legolas might not have caught the muttered question. He began to feel a certain amount of pity for the young dwarf. While the current situation _was_ , in fact, his fault, it wasn't as if he'd planned any of it. Tauriel's reaction was painful to watch, even for her former prince, and he wondered why she was so distraught.

"Prince Kíli," he said, delicately, and the dwarf looked up at him with mournful brown eyes. "I know it is none of my concern, but I may be able to help. If you will allow me to, that is."

Kíli sighed. "I know it was soon for this to happen, but... I'd no idea she'd take it like _this_." There was distinct vulnerability in the prince's tone now; desperation was tempering his pride. "It's killing me. I don't know what to do. What to say. I wish I could... undo what I've done."

Legolas glanced at Elrond, whose lips were pursed again. It was clear he disapproved of Kíli's sentiment, but he was keeping his mouth shut.

"I think I might be able to fathom why she reacted so strongly. Prince Kíli, with your permission, I-"

"Yes, yes! Go help her!" Exasperated, desperate, Kíli flapped a hand at Legolas, who stood, bowed, and departed.

Where he found Tauriel was only slightly less distressing than watching her leave. She hadn't gone far, but now she stood perilously close to the rushing white foam of a waterfall, which slipped from a higher point and plunged into a deep pool several feet below them. Red hair buffeted this way and that by the impish winds, she looked like the shadow of a wild thing, her gaze fixed on the pool below them, her face wet with tears and cold spray.

"I hope you are not thinking of jumping." Legolas's voice startled her, and her face twitched toward him.

"Of course I'm not!" She sounded half offended by the suggestion, and Legolas raised a hand in a token of apology.

"I know you wanted to be alone, but mellon'nin, please don't feel as though you must bear this burden alone. You can tell me what is bothering you. You've always been able to before."

Tauriel held her peace for a moment, turning her gaze back to the rushing water. "Nothing is the same," she said at length, and her voice quavered unsteadily. " _I'm_ not even the same. I made my choice, and nothing will change it, but..." The elleth let her words fade into silence, and Legolas thought he understood where she had been going with the thought.

"It's not what you expected?"

Tauriel nodded slightly.

 _So what_ did  _you expect?_ The question came immediately to Legolas's mind, but he wouldn't voice it. It was rooted more in resentment than concern for her wellbeing.

"It will take some time, Tauriel. You have known only one life until this point, and changes such as these take getting used to. It has all been very... sudden." Too sudden for anyone's comfort, he felt. Such was the way of rash decision-making. Quickly done, and painfully slow in the mending.

"Two lives," she corrected. "I had a life before coming to the Woodland Realm." After a moment, she sighed and turned to face him. He noticed that she still had a hand on her stomach. Twins. The thought pierced him, jealousy and regret surging to the surface.

"Legolas, I can't do this. I can't be a mother. Not for one, let alone two." She shook her head and swayed slightly, spreading her feet a little to better support her weight.

Legolas swiftly closed the distance between them, reaching out to steady her. She shot him a questioning look, but he didn't let go. "I'd trust your balance, but... you fell in the river earlier." She frowned, obviously ashamed of her perceived incompetence. _Can't even be trusted to_ stand _on my own anymore_ , her face seemed to say.

Legolas deeply pitied her in that moment. "What makes you think you can't be a mother? The way you led the guards in your charge during your many years as captain, and protected our people... The way you saved those you could from the dragon's flames after that, and slew the Defiler in the Great Battle.... How is motherhood more frightening than what you've faced in the past?"

Tauriel shivered slightly and, after a moment, leaned against him. It was a dizzy feeling, to have her so close to him. Her body was soft and warm, softer than he could have imagined. Legolas closed his eyes and, with a magnificent effort, pushed her gently away. She was married to another, and no matter how little he liked Kíli, he wouldn't do something like that. Not to Kíli. Not to Tauriel. The elleth loved her mate. That was obvious, even with her currently unstable mood.

"I'm not afraid of the challenges." Her voice was still unsteady, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I'm afraid of what hasn't happened yet. And no matter how many times Kee tells me not to be scared... it keeps coming back."

"I don't understand what you fear may happen." Legolas shook his head, the wind from the falling water catching up his pale blond locks. "You fear you will not be able to protect your children? That they will not be safe?"

She didn't answer, but the way she was suddenly avoiding his gaze was all the answer he needed. Legolas shouldn't have been surprised. She'd told him of this fear in the past, that she couldn't properly defend those who trusted her. But there was still a feeling of incredulity, of disbelief. Tauriel was the strongest, fiercest elleth he had ever met.

"Tauriel, listen to me." It was a risk, but something told him these were the right words to say. Pushing his hair out of his face, he tightened his hold on her elbow. "I would trust you with my life, still. And... with the lives of my children. I cannot imagine anyone, anywhere, who could be a better mother."

By now, her hair was hanging in damp red clumps around her face and shoulders, but when she glanced at him, there was gratitude in her eyes. Then Tauriel winced, her body tensing as she rocked unsteadily forward.

The lunge to catch her was short, but effective, in that she didn't fall. Not so effective in that his free hand was now braced against her burgeoning midriff at precisely the point a tiny foot was jabbing repeatedly into the elleth's side.

Legolas quickly repositioned his hand, pulling her away from the edge. His eyes were as wide as hers. "I jus- I just felt them. Tauriel, I felt them _moving_."

There was distinct wonder in his voice, and for an instant he looked and sounded as excited and astonished as a child discovering something for the first time. Something completely new and unexpected.

"Yes," Tauriel agreed with a fleeting smile, though she looked a bit strained as she leaned against him, "they are rather good at that. If you'll excuse me...." Straightening, she turned away with something of a waddle in her gait (extremely unusual to see, even if he shouldn't have been watching).

"Tell Kee I'll be right back. Oh, and Legolas-" she paused and looked back at him, "don't tell Kíli you felt them. I still don't let people touch me." As she moved away, the elf realized two things, both of which made him blush. First, she was walking swiftly toward the ladies' room. Second, she'd just told him that her own mate had never felt his children stir in her womb. Rather than triumph, Legolas immediately felt guilt.

The elf returned to the table, valiantly keeping his expression even despite its attempts to betray him. Kíli stared at him expectantly, and Elrond looked oddly curious.

"I think she will be alright," the blond pronounced finally, seating himself again. "She is just finding it difficult to adjust. It is trying, what she is going through. Even for one as hardy of constitution as she is."

Kíli let out a relieved sigh, but almost immediately straightened again. "Where is she?"

Legolas could only hope the heat in his cheeks wasn't visible. "She went to... refresh herself. She'll be back momentarily." Again the dwarf relaxed, but Elrond's expression didn't vary. His gaze was curious and piercing. He couldn't suspect - not that it mattered. Tauriel had made her choice, and that was that.

At length, the red-haired female rejoined them and took her seat beside Kíli. She even allowed him to fuss over her and press food on her, this time without protest or complaint.

Legolas finished his meal in silence, watching, observing, thinking. When it came time to part company, he directed a meaningful look at Elrond, and the elf lord nodded. They had things to discuss that did not involve his former captain and the dwarf she'd chosen as her mate.

The water rushed on below the verandah outside Elrond's study, the sinking sun setting hues of deep orange and soft pink on the slanting roofs of the Last Homely House. Legolas had felt somewhat exposed out here, away from the green canopy and roof of stone, but the beauty of the sky as it moved from day to night was something he did not often witness.

"All is not well at the Mountain?" Legolas turned to his host, who stood at the railing looking over his twilit domain. "Prince Kíli, I guess, is not here on royal business."

Elrond's eyes shifted from the valley to his guest, then up to the darkening sky, now spangled with tiny silver lights. For a minute, he didn't answer, the water's constant murmur softening the silence.

"Not all within the Mountain are as willing to accept their choice as you are, your Highness." The elf lord's voice, slightly deeper than that of Legolas' father, carried easily over the night sounds of the valley. "Neither of them will tell me, though, the exact state of affairs in Erebor."

"It must rest with Thorin Oakenshield, then. He would have the final say. So he does not approve of their union when he himself has made a halfling his consort?"

Legolas's tone was scathing, as though the situation were personally insulting. In a way, perhaps, it was. The ridiculousness of those dwarves, thinking his guard captain wasn't worthy of their prince.

His host turned to look at him, and though the motion was smooth and his expression was gentle, there was something in the elf lord's gaze that made Legolas feel slightly ashamed.

"I sensed no dissension between Kíli and his uncle. I have seen that there is trouble in the Mountain, but my vision is clouded."

It was then that the elf prince noticed, ashamed for not seeing it sooner, that Elrond was still a little pale. His health and vigor had been restored, perhaps, but his energy was still somewhat drained.

He decided then that he would not keep his host from his rest much longer.

"Trouble? What kind of trouble? Do the dwarves not respect Thorin's right to rule?" That seemed to Legolas the most typical issue to arise in a fledgling kingdom. Power struggles between the nobles as each found his place in the new system of leadership.

"I can't say I know. Only that there is trouble. And unless Oakenshield asks for our assistance, I believe we shall continue not knowing." Elrond's gentle warning wasn't lost on the prince, but Legolas began to think his father might have known more than he let on. If there was going to be trouble, it would be now, during the coronation. He could only imagine what was happening in Erebor now.

"Thank you, Lord Elrond. It grows late. Perhaps I should retire."

"Your chambers are ready for you."


	6. Forver-Light; Kíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli and Tauriel spend some much-needed quiet time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, this is terribly late, and I'm due to update again tomorrow. *shame* For those of you who've been following _Of Gold and Ghosts,_ you already know why I've been so... absent. For those who aren't, suffice to say that getting a new job and trying to handle finances and other such Real Life demands isn't kind to one's free time. The hiatus was, I assure you, completely unintentional. Hopefully, as I settle into my new routine, things will even out a bit more. Loki and I are still writing volumes, so you can expect plenty of updates in the future (though I suspect it will be some time before we graduate from the twice-monthly updates we've established). 
> 
> Without further ado, I give you more Kiliel fluff. Next chapter to be posted tomorrow!

Kíli pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself, his breath a pale cloud in the dark air. Tauriel climbed at his side with her now-standard waddling gait, huffing softly with her exertions. The curving stairway up to the observatory was not an easy trek, despite the even steps and iron railing. Below them, the water rushed on, the mist rising steadily, glinting in the moonlight.

"We picked a good night for stargazing," Kíli commented, indicating the clear skies above. If there was one thing to raise the elleth's spirits, the dwarf figured this was it.

She didn't pause until they reached the first of the landings, and when she did, Kíli braced her swaying form with a hand on her lower back. Tauriel complained about how uncoordinated and clumsy she was now, but the young dwarf never thought her anything less than breathtaking. Her gaze was on the stars above them now, and he guided her gently further up the stairs, unable to stop the smile that spread from his heart to his face. There was that glowing look he'd so hoped to see.

Dinner had been hard on her, but talking with the Woodland prince had helped, and he wasn't about to hold a grudge against the elf for helping her relax.

"I hear them." Tauriel's voice was soft, but held that 'I feel like crying' note he'd become familiar with over the past couple weeks. A glance at her face showed her eyes wet with tears, and Kíli felt a stab of anxiety. Had bringing her up here been the wrong thing to do? No, stay calm. She didn't look unhappy. Things might still be alright.

"Hear what?"

"The stars." She blinked, but the wetness didn't go away. "It sounds like home."

"Home? The Woodland?" They reached the second landing, and paused for a moment. Kíli offered the elleth a comforting look. "I know you miss it. I long for my own home sometimes. When I think about it, I... I almost don't want to remember the way things used to be."

He exhaled slowly, casting his gaze over the railing to the watery depths below. Then he turned back to Tauriel, smiling faintly. "But you are my life now. Wherever we are together... I am home."

She gave him a fond look and bent slightly to press a kiss to his forehead. "May I never forget why I love you." For a moment, Kíli just held her, savoring the closeness of her body, imagining that, so close to the stars, her spirit was also close, safe in his arms.

Up the stairs, they proceeded at a comfortable pace for her until they reached the broad platform at the top. Here, there were cushions and low benches for reclining as the stars danced above, wool blankets folded and stacked neatly against the wall. It was empty tonight, save for them. If Kíli happened to have mentioned this idea to Elrond, it surely had little to do with their current blessing of privacy.

_I'll need to thank him tomorrow._

Tauriel settled herself on a bench, the cushions being too low for her to comfortably rise from them in another hour, and Kíli got a blanket for them. She shared willingly, despite the significantly reduced space between her body and the thick fabric. He didn't mind.

When the dwarf felt the first tiny flutters of movement, he thought it was Tauriel's stomach, and politely ignored it. But it continued. Tiny patterns. Thumps and bumps. His children. Twins.

Kíli turned to look at her, startled by the realization. "Tauri, that's... that's _them_ , isn't it?" He could scarcely believe it. It was one thing to know there was life growing within her, quite another to feel it for himself.

Then it occurred to him it might be painful to have little feet pummeling her insides, and a look of concern spread across his face. "Does it hurt?"

Tauriel shook her head. "Uncomfortable sometimes, but not painful. They're just very... active. Started this," she indicated her stomach pointedly, "a few days ago. I think they get it from you."

It was strange, but not unpleasant, to hear her discussing their children ( _their_ children!) so comfortably. Before, she had adamantly refused to even acknowledge that she was pregnant.

What, Kíli wondered, had Legolas said that had made such a difference? Whatever it was, he needed to thank the elf for it. His list of people to thank was becoming rather unwieldy. 

The dwarf smiled, relief washing over him. "I wonder what else they may have gotten from me. My ravishing good looks, perhaps." Tauriel glanced at him in a way that seemed to mean he was being silly, and he shrugged. "In all honesty, I don't know what to expect. Will they have pointed ears? Will they have... beards?"

The elleth shrugged as if the answer was of no concern, and turned her eyes back to the sparkling heavens. Kíli was a little bothered that she didn't seem to care what their children would look like, but quickly realized that she was probably right. A quiet voice in his mind that sounded remarkably like his wife's told him that they could look like Hobbits, and it wouldn't change a thing. The thought made him smile.

He felt her tense slightly, a shiver running through her. It passed to him, as well - it wasn't a pleasant thing to contemplate, the danger their children might be in.

"They will be safer here than anywhere else," Tauriel whispered at length. "I honestly don't know if Erebor will ever be safe for any of us. We can hope, though. Your uncle is a strong leader, and a good king. I can't imagine he would let his kin remain in exile if he could help it." Even this confidence was tempered by conditions. If he could help it.

Kíli nodded slightly. "I don't think it matters much, one way or another. I won't let any harm come to them, no matter where we stay." Tauriel let out a faint huff of laughter, which tickled his ear, and he shook his head. "What's so funny?"

When she replied, he could hear the smile in her voice. "I trust you completely, with my life and theirs. I just wonder where you plan for us to live that would call for so fierce a defense."

Her mood had been so unstable of late that he was reluctant to point out how great the dangers were outside of Elrond's generous protection. This was the first night in a long while that she'd allowed him so close - though he now knew the reason why. The fluttering movements of the twins in her belly rippled against his side. Had she wanted to distance herself from him? From their children?

"If Erebor is not safe, I'd take us back to Ered Luin," he said after a moment's contemplation. "That was the plan originally, and I think it still makes the most sense. When the twins have... _arrived_ ," he made a strange accompanying gesture, "and you're able to travel again, I'll send a message to Uncle. We won't go back to Erebor unless he's certain there won't be any trouble."

He massaged his scruff thoughtfully, a habit he'd taken to lately, now that his beard seemed to be filling out a little. "But we can't predict how Dain and others like him might react to seeing them, though. The twins. As I recall, that was one of his main grievances. That I was 'mingling Durin's blood,' or something stupid like that. I really hope it wouldn't set him off again."

"I don't know about dwarrows," Tauriel said cautiously, "but elflings don't usually travel." Kíli frowned slightly, and she explained. "My people were nomads. We rarely ceased traveling. But I didn't stray from my birthplace until I had finished my first growth, and could keep up with the adults."

"And you were... how old?" Kíli felt almost nervous in the asking. Since the day they had discovered she was pregnant, she hadn't said much about her past. If "not much" meant "nothing at all," that is.

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen?!" Kíli was genuinely shocked. "I don't understand. Why can't elflings travel? I mean, when I was a babe, Mam put me in a basket in the back of the cart and had Fee look after me whenever she needed to go someplace. Didn't hurt me a bit." He hesitated. "At least, I don't _think_ it did."

"It's not that they can't, it's that they don't. So few are born, that the adults guard them jealously, and keep them out of harm's way." Tauriel didn't seem at all defensive or surprised by his reaction. There was, however, an edge of anxiety in her tone. Kíli could read the fear she hid from him as easily as if it were whispered in his ear.

"You want to keep them safe," he said softly, "and you're afraid of what might happen if we leave Rivendell too soon?"

For a moment, the elleth kept her eyes on the stars, and he felt her steady breathing in her side and belly, the warmth of her body engaged in an enchanting, mysterious rhythm.

"By the time I was allowed to travel, I could defend myself." Her words weren't really an answer. "But I'll not keep you from your home." This addition startled the dwarf, but at the same moment he felt a rush of pride. She was facing her fears. Perhaps she would conquer them someday.

Kíli took her hand. "We'll wait and see. At this point, I suppose speculation isn't terribly helpful. I mean, until recently, we didn't even know it was possible for dwarves and elves to... reproduce." It seemed a rather crass word for the miracle taking place within Tauriel, but she didn't seem to be bothered by it.

"You are right," the elleth said softly, not taking her eyes from the sky. "And it follows worrying over what we cannot control is equally unhelpful. Set these cares aside for now, meleth nin, and listen. Listen to the silence awhile, and perhaps you will begin to hear as I do."

Kíli hesitated a moment, then relented, resting against her side. The contentment he found himself wrapped in came of knowing that the elleth beside him truly loved him, and that together, they could do this. The stars sparkled overhead, revolving slowly through the dark heavens, and the water continued to rush softly through the valley below.

"I love you, Tauri."

"I know, Kíli. Thank you. I would not be whole without it."

* * *

A blinding flash of white-gold light woke Kíli suddenly, and he sat up, reaching for the knife at his belt without thinking. The platform was deserted except for them, though, and the light had only been that of the rising sun off the rippling water. Beside him, curled on the cushioned bench and still covered in the blanket he had wrapped around her, Tauriel slept peacefully, one arm over her face, the other draped over the dome of her swollen belly.

For a minute, he just watched her. Even now, she still tried to draw her knees to her chest in sleep, curling in on herself as much as possible. This late in her pregnancy, of course, her burgeoning stomach stopped her from attaining the position she desired. A dagger rested on the bench not far from her hand, only a little above her head. In Rivendell, the safest place in Middle-earth, she slept with a weapon close at hand. Kíli wasn't sure whether to admire her or be amused.

A slight change in her breathing was all the warning he had before she was awake, luminous green eyes searching his face, dagger in hand. "Kíli? What-? Oh." A chagrined look crossed her face. "I fell asleep."

Kíli tried not to smile. He had a feeling that expressing his amusement now probably wouldn't endear him to the sleep-muddled elleth. "You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to bother you, so…" He shrugged, and suppressed a grin when Tauriel gave him an exasperated look.

"In my dream," she said almost threateningly, "you shaved your beard."

"Shaved my-?" Kíli felt a shock at the thought. It would mean the sort of grief and shame that he'd never known, that his uncle had lived with for years. No dwarf shaved his beard without very good reason. But how could she know that? Obviously, she didn't. Kíli mastered himself and shook his head. "I wouldn't do that. I've wondered, though, what you would look like with a beard."

The look Tauriel fixed him with as she stretched was a very strange one, and he hastened to explain.

"Well, you saw Mam. Dwarf women have beards." He tried to shrug it off, make it sound like a small thing. Tauriel wasn't willing to let it go, though, and she frowned at him until he continued. "It's kind of a… status thing. A full beard is a sign of health, prosperity, stuff like that."

Tauriel's gaze flicked down to his scruff, and Kíli flushed.

"I'm still young. My beard's coming in." It was a little humiliating to be reminded of how young he still was. Barely even come of age, and married to an elf who'd been killing orcs when his mother was still in swaddling clothes, and now he was soon to be the father of half-breed twins. It made him feel small and lost. Kíli jumped when her fingers brushed his cheek, the contact bringing him back to his immediate surroundings rather suddenly. Tauriel's expression was thoughtful, gentle, as she stroked the short, dark bristles that covered his jaw.

"I suppose… on you, I wouldn't mind it." She sighed faintly and shook her head. "It's hard to imagine you with a beard like…." The elleth gestured to indicate a long, bushy beard of the sort she'd probably seen on other Dwarves, and it occurred to Kíli that his wife might not think of him as a normal Dwarf, like other Dwarves. Even if she knew that was precisely what he was, she had known him a relatively short time, and had (by her own admission) chosen to love him for his kindness and understanding, not his race or appearance. And Elves didn't grow beards. Ever.

"You… don't like beards, do you?" It was a bit of a shock to speak the words. It had never occurred to him that anyone, least of all his wife, could find facial hair unattractive. Tauriel studied him before answering, but as always, it was with open honesty.

"I don't _dis_ like them. But I suppose I would be less likely to kiss you if you had more of a beard than you do now." Her fingers twirled his whiskers in little circles along his jaw, and he wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. It wasn't like they kissed all that often in any case, but the thought that his beard, when it came in, would make her less likely to be affectionate… it bothered him. At the same time, he didn't really want to say anything about it. After all, she was as free to have her opinions as he was to have his own. It might have been easier, Kíli thought, to be unbothered if there was something about her, anything, that he didn't like.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything." Tauriel withdrew her hand. "It makes no difference. I wouldn't ask you to cut off your beard any more than you would ask me to clip the points from my ears. Come. Someone is hungry, and I don't think it's me."

Kíli entertained only momentary confusion before realizing she was referring to the children in her womb. He made himself relax and stood, offering a hand to the elleth so he could help her to her feet. The walk down the long, spiral staircase that had brought them up here wasn't one he was looking forward to. As they turned toward the stairs, though, he saw a familiar blond figure standing on the top step, one hand on the railing. Legolas wasn't at the top of his list of people he wanted to see right now, but Kíli wouldn't begrudge the elf the freedom to wander where he would in the valley.

Still, he could have had better timing.

"Prince Legolas." Tauriel inclined her head to him in greeting, and Kíli imagined she was grateful for the fact that their meeting was under less mortifying circumstances than their first.

"Lady Tauriel." Legolas bowed slightly, and the elleth shifted, a sign Kíli had learned to interpret as one of discomfort. It must have been odd, he reflected, to have someone who'd been her superior for so long suddenly treating her as an equal. He remembered a similar feeling when Balin had been answering to _his_ authority after the Battle, while Thorin had been unconscious.

"Well, good morning to you, too," he called, making himself smile brightly as he pulled Tauriel just a little closer to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shoot him an amused look.

"I hadn't realized there was anyone up here," began Legolas apologetically, and Tauriel shook her head.

"We were just making our way down. You may have the view to yourself."

The nuances that passed between Elves, thought Kíli reflectively, were becoming easier to read. Legolas seemed, in his distant way, to be disappointed.

 


	7. Crowning; Fíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's coronation, which doesn't exactly go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter today! About twice the length of a normal chapter. Have at it, my friends, and enjoy!

The hall was decorated with drapes and flags of brilliant gold and deep, royal blue. The assembled guests were dressed in their best finery, standing at attention while they waited for the ceremony to begin. The trumpet sounded and the doors opened. Several guests, Ori and Billa included, leaned forward anxiously, eagerly. Fíli glanced at the girls to his left and smiled. Their excitement was infectious. He stood beside the remade throne, and on the other side of the royal seat stood Dain. Both of them were richly dressed, though not as richly as the dwarf that approached them.

Thorin looked every inch the king, the years of travel and worry scrubbed away. His robe was blue velvet, embossed at the hems with angular, interlocking designs, his cloak dark blue and lined with wolf fur. Fíli had seen him look a bit nervous before the proceedings began, but there was no trace of it now. He moved evenly up the carpeted hall, his steps slow and deliberate, his wrists crossed behind him, his eyes focused on something Fíli couldn't readily identify. The throne, perhaps? The wall behind it?

The young dwarf glanced at the girls again, and saw that Billa's face was wet with tears. She wasn't making any noise, and she didn't seem to be in pain; the fact that she was crying and looked so happy at the same time was both confusing and wonderful to him. Fíli thought to himself that his uncle was very lucky to have found someone so completely devoted to him. His eyes fell on Ori, and for a moment, her gaze flicked up to meet his. He looked back to his uncle swiftly, but knew he was smiling. Ori had that effect on him.

Thorin stepped onto the dais, turning to Dain. The older dwarf bore a small cushion, upon which rested the crown Thorin had made. He dipped his head slightly in a token of respect, then indicated Thorin should face the assembly.

Thorin did, the trailing hem of his cloak twisting at his feet. Dain moved to stand at his side, looking inscrutably over the expectant crowd.

"Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, named Oakenshield for your feats in the battle of Azanulbizar," he began solemnly. Dain's words echoed impressively into the farthest reaches of the hall, where a small group from Esgaroth stood, watching a ceremony no Man had seen since the days of Thror. Near them, an even smaller group from the Woodland Realm looked on, though there were no blonds among them. "Do you hereby swear to uphold and enrich Erebor and her laws, to protect the rights and purity of her people, to defend her against outsiders until death takes you to the Halls of Waiting?"

Fíli felt a twinge of unease, and glanced at Dain. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but Thorin's brow was furrowed slightly. He could only guess at what passed through his uncle's mind. Protecting purity? Defending against outsiders? Fíli turned slightly to check on the girls, and saw confusion on both their faces. Billa held Ori's hands, and they watched anxiously. No one else in the hall seemed to think anything was wrong. Not even his mother. Dís stood quietly to the right of the throne, a couple paces beyond Dain's spot, looking on impassively. Why didn't she say anything?

There was a lengthy pause, and the assembly began to look a bit uncomfortable. The group from Esgaroth seemed particularly so, glancing one to another as if wondering if this was part of the ceremony.

"What is your answer, son of Thrain?" Dain stared at Thorin expectantly, a hint of what might have been irritation flashing across his face. Or anger. It was hard to tell.

Thorin lowered his chin, the muscles in his jaw tensing. Fíli knew the look well. Stubbornness. "I do not agree to these terms, Lord Dain. This was not the oath to which Thror and his forbears swore, and it will not be the one to which I swear."

There was something in the way Dain lifted his chin that bespoke triumph, though his expression remained unreadable.

"You refuse the oath that would make you king, son of Thrain?"

Murmurs broke out in the crowd, and Fíli took a half-step forward. He had no right to speak, but this was outrageous.

"Dain," he hissed softly, "what are you doing? This is a coronation, not a challenge."

Dain did not regard Fíli, though his words may or may not have been partially in response to the young dwarf's question. "This oath was the one agreed upon by the nobles, and is, therefore, the one to be used. To what part, may I ask, do you object, and on what grounds?"

Fíli could see his uncle hesitate, and knew there was no good way out of this. If Thorin took the oath, he would be forced to banish his One and disown Kíli for marrying an elf. If he refused to take the oath-

"The oaths of my grandsire and the kings before him are good enough for me. Do you doubt their validity?" Thorin's authoritative voice might have come from the stone itself, it was so deep. Dain sighed quietly, as though lamenting the necessity of explaining something so obvious.

"Erebor demands an answer, Oakenshield. Will you take the oath, or no?"

There was a moment of heavy silence, but Fíli could see the answer in his uncle's lowered brow. "No."

"Then you are not fit for the crown you forged." Dain turned to Fíli, and the blond felt a thrill of adrenaline course through his veins. What was Dain doing?

"Fíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror-" Dain's voice rolled over him, and he realized with a jolt that he was about to be given the same choice his uncle had just been faced with. The hall was full of stunned silence, not a soul stirring as Dain repeated the oath.

"I..." Fíli glanced at Thorin, then at Ori. He couldn't disown his own brother. He couldn't banish his uncle.

This was what Dain wanted, then. For Thorin and his heir to reject the throne. Kíli would be eliminated from the records for "sullying the bloodline," and Dís had given up her right to the throne in favor of her sons when he, her firstborn, had come of age.

There was no way to win.

"... no. I can't."

Dain made some attempt at looking disheartened, and allowed the weighty silence to drag on a bit before speaking again.

"Then as the next nearest of kin, I fear it is my duty to lead Erebor where these two have refused. All here are witnesses to what has taken place, and no doubt lament, as I do, what must now be done."

"This is madness," Thorin growled, shaking his head. "Madness and treason. You conceived this oath knowing full well it would not be one to which I could swear. You were planning this all along, and I curse myself for failing to see it sooner."

Dain turned slowly to face the assembled dwarves and Thorin. "You speak dangerous words, son of Thrain," he said softly, though his words were no less audible to everyone in the hall. "I do not, however, wish to strike against my kin. Take your nephew and leave the kingdom you rejected, and may you never return."

"This is not over, Nain's son," Thorin hissed, leaning closer to the older dwarf. "I have faced far greater hardship than banishment in my time, and with or without a kingdom, I will endure. Those who occupy thrones not meant for them... are oft quickly unseated."

With that, he loosed the clasp about his neck, letting the rich fabric pool at his feet, turned, and stalked from the hall. The crowd murmured in wonder and what may have been dismay as Dain took the crown from the cushion and placed it on his own head. It was a bit too small for him, and he frowned, struggling to position it as it was intended to sit, just over the ears.

The hall quieted again, and Dain repeated the words of the oath, vowing his adherence to its every provision. Fíli finally caught his mother's gaze, signing "What do we do?" in hasty Iglishmêk.

Her face remained as stony as before, and she gave no indication she understood.

The nobles were starting to file forward to swear fealty to their new king, and Fíli found himself once more forced into the position of needing to think for himself. He was halfway to deciding against staying in the hall when someone touched his arm, and he nearly crawled out of his own skin in surprise.

Ori was standing beside him, large eyes fastened on his face, dark with concern and fear. He shook his head after a moment and grasped her hand, willing his heart to slow its mad racing. The blond remembered Billa after a moment, and looked around for her in time to see the hobbit striding toward Dain with murder on her flushed face. Fíli grabbed her arm and dragged her with him as he left the hall in all haste. He needed to find his uncle before they did or decided anything else.

"Let me go," the halfling was snarling under her breath, though she offered him only token resistance. "I'll show him what sort of throne he ought to be sitting on. I'll make him _eat_  his own beard."

"Billa, he doesn't need another excuse to have you... dealt with." Fíli's tone was chilling, but the halfling didn't seem too put off from her wrath.

"I did _not_ face a dragon so that oaf could have Thorin's kingdom! We came this far, all of us. _We_ reclaimed Erebor, and he thinks he can just... take it? Just like that?"

"We'll discuss it with Thorin, Billa," Ori said, though she looked equally devastated. "I don't think we ought to try anything until we understand more of what's going on."

"Understand?" Billa's snarl broke into an indignant squeak. "A blind tunnel rat could see what's going on! That usurper just _stole Thorin's bloody kingdom!_ "

Fíli had to remind himself that Billa was smaller than he, weaker, and female. Striking her wasn't an option. Even if he wanted very much to take out his emotions on someone.

"It's not our right to start a vendetta on Thorin's behalf." He didn't give her a chance to retort, but pushed her through the door into Thorin's chambers.

Thorin had changed into one of his old tunics, leaving the fancy one in a heap on the floor. His face was very grim, focused, and he seemed to pay the others little heed as they entered, continuing to fill a small satchel he'd set on the bed.

"Uncle," Fíli addressed him after a moment, and Thorin looked up.

"It's not safe for us here now. Any of us. Take what will serve you for a few weeks' travel, and nothing more. We've no time to lose."

"So that's it?" Billa looked indignant. " _That's_ the way Thorin Oakenshield responds to a bit of posturing on the part of his cousin? Running away? I don't understand what's gotten into you all."

Fíli's patience, already stretched to the breaking point, snapped quite spectacularly. "By Durin's dirty underthings, woman, _shut up._ Trust us to know what's necessary in a kingdom you've never been part of." The halfling took a hasty step back, looking quite shocked, and when Fíli turned to look at his uncle again, the dwarf's grim face was barely an inch from his own.

"If you speak to my One like that again, I can guarantee you a duel like you've never dreamed of." The ice-blue gaze shifted away from Fíli, and the blond found he could breathe again. "And Billa, please be quiet. You don't understand, and I don't have time to explain."

The door opened, and Balin, Dwalin, and Bofur entered in a jumble, talking over one another.

"Thorin, lad, say it's not true! Dain took your crown?" Balin's words silenced the others, who looked expectantly at their king. None of them had been present for the coronation, being needed elsewhere in the kingdom. And now that he thought about it, Fíli thought he should have been suspicious when the sons of Fundin hadn't been able to escape their duties to attend their own cousin's coronation.

Thorin shouldered the satchel, turning to the newcomers with an unreadable expression. "We must leave Erebor. I don't know for how long. We are all in grave danger, so kindly keep your mouths shut and pack what you will need for the journey. Dwalin, inform the others, and see that they're ready to leave within the next twenty minutes. Balin, make sure everyone in our party is armed. Quickly."

There didn't seem to be any room for argument. All knew this particular tone, this particular look. Thorin truly believed they were all in imminent danger.

The brothers exchanged a devastated glance, and Bofur followed them out.

Fíli stiffened suddenly, his gaze darting around the room. "Wait... where's Billa gotten to?"

As Thorin's expression changed from grim to annoyed, and finally to frightened, Fíli spun on his heel. "Ori, get our things ready. I'll look for Billa." He didn't wait for her to nod - he knew she would obey him. Right now, when they were all in danger, she could do little else.

Fíli launched himself into the hall, Thorin just behind, and knew immediately that they were in trouble. Somewhere down the hall and out of sight he could hear Billa's voice, and true to form, it sounded like she was in the midst of an angry tirade.

"You think you can just barge in and do this to us? We fought for this kingdom! We faced a dragon! You have no right! This is _Thorin's-_  GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!"

They rounded the corner to see a guard lifting the hobbit into the air as she kicked and struggled, face flushed with anger. "UNHAND ME!" she howled, seemingly unaware of the danger she was in. Facing her, a smug smile on his face, was Dain.

"You will have your just deserts, little thief."

"Release her." Thorin's voice was authoritative as ever, but seemed to ring hollow. Everyone knew he had no power here now beyond that of his own fists. "Release her, Dain, or so help me, I will-"

"You'll _what?_ " Dain's smugness did not ebb in the slightest. "You'll attack me? Look around you, Oakenshield." He indicated the troop of guards flanking him, the guards at every doorway along the corridor, the guards lining the walls. "These dwarves are loyal to _me_ , as they should be. Your time here is ended. You have disgraced your people - _betrayed_  your people - and I have been generous enough to allow you to go your way in peace."

"Then let us go." Thorin seemed to understand Dain was baiting him. " _All_ of us. Release her, and we will leave forthwith. There is nothing to be gained by doing her harm."

"Even if this creature hadn't committed high treason by stealing the king's jewel and giving it to the Oathbreaker, she just threatened and assaulted my royal person. She will be imprisoned and tried, as any other would." Dain's smug look was only serving to put Fíli in a particularly foul mood. He would have very much liked to do some threatening and assaulting himself. His uncle beat him to it, though.

"I said release her," growled Thorin.

"Uncle." Fíli's warning had no effect. Dain made a dismissive gesture.

"Take the prisoner to the dungeon."

Billa thrashed energetically. "You can't do this! Erebor is his home, damnit, doesn't that mean anything to you?!"

"Billa!" Thorin lunged forward, a flash of steel from his belt the only hint that he'd drawn a weapon. He was met by three guards and quickly disarmed.

"Leave, son of Thrain. There is nothing here for you now." Dain glanced at his men and nodded. "Take them to the gate. Our generosity is not to be tested."

* * *

Fíli could only imagine the eviscerating pain his uncle was in, cast out of his own kingdom, his One torn away from him, awaiting what could only be a death sentence. Indeed, Thorin seemed overcome, his face against the stone of one of the statues flanking the gate. He was bleeding from his knuckles and a number of other lacerations he'd acquired struggling against the ten guards it had taken to wrestle him out of Erebor, and his shoulders shuddered with emotion he was desperately trying to withhold.

"Uncle, the others will be here in a minute. We'll figure something out. We'll... we'll get her out of there, somehow."

Thorin gave no indication he'd heard his nephew, but Fíli was undeterred.

"Dain has no right to do what he did; the people will see that. They'll throw that usurping bastard out, wait and see."

The guards barring the gate didn't seem to like this kind of talk, and one of them jabbed Fíli with the butt of his spear. The blond recoiled, glowering at him and there were suddenly two matched blades in his hands, ready and spoiling for a fight.

"Try it again. I _dare_ you."

"Fíli." This had apparently gotten Thorin's attention, and he put a hand on his nephew's arm. "Don't. Now is not the time."

 _Oh, so it's not the time NOW._ Fíli’s grip on his knives tightened. The gates grated loudly open, and the rest of the Company trickled out onto the causeway. Balin and Dwalin each carried a heavy sack. Bofur helped Glóin with several hunting axes, and behind them came Dori, looking somewhat displeased, but also carrying a traveling pack. Ori bore two packs, one of which she handed to Fíli, which forced him to put his knives away again.

"Where to?" growled Dwalin.

"I'm not leaving," replied Thorin shortly, his fists tightening so suddenly that blood wept from his knuckles in fat drops. "Not without Billa."

"Yes you are." The voice of the Lady Dís so startled Thorin that he actually relaxed slightly. Fíli turned a stunned look on his mother.

"Mam? What are you-?"

But the stern dwarrowdam was as inscrutable, as stone-faced now as she had been in the king's hall during the coronation ceremony. She didn't even glance at him, which tore at her son's heart.

She dropped two bulging sacks at Thorin's feet. Traveling provisions. "Leave, Brother. There is nothing for you here. Go to Laketown, at least. Swear to me that you'll take my son to Laketown."

"Laketown?" Thorin seemed utterly confounded. "Sister... you - you're staying here? With _Dain?_ Why? What have I done to make even you turn against me?"

The betrayal in his face and voice was such that Fíli turned away, suddenly ashamed of his own mother. How could she? She'd been loyal to her brother time out of mind. Was she angry about how he'd handled Kíli and Tauriel? Was she angry about Thorin's choice of mate, too? It made no sense.

"Swear it, Brother," she insisted, her expression as grim as a warg with the last scrap of a kill in its jaws.

"You can't stay. Dís. Please."

"Swear it."

Thorin seemed to deflate, his strength ebbing as Fíli had never seen before. He nodded heavily, and Dís promptly turned away.

"Go, Brother. Laketown waits for you."

Balin touched Thorin's shoulder as the gates clanged shut. "You still have seven loyal, Thorin. And we won't leave our burglar behind."

Fíli glanced around and frowned. "Where's Bombur? And Óin?"

"Bombur's leg isn't healed enough." Bofur's tone was a little sour, but he didn't seem angry with the fat dwarf. Dwalin snorted, but said nothing as he adjusted his grip on his crutch. His leg hadn't yet healed around the metal peg that Bofur had made to replace his foot.

"My brother's too old for this," growled Glóin, seeming sad. "He said he'd keep an eye on things, and send word if there's a change."

And so, with heavy hearts, the much-reduced Company of Thorin Oakenshield turned their faces away from Erebor and towards the ruins of Dale, looking more like a snow-covered rock formation than a city amid the white-streaked plain below. The rebuilding process was to begin shortly, overseen by Bard, but the spring had been a fickle one, the weather turning deceptively warm before issuing a cold front as bitter as any they'd had all winter. Five minutes had not gone by before the group had all their cloaks on and hoods up, though the wind seemed determined to sweep the latter off again, blowing icy gusts into their eyes.

"Do you have any desire to go through Dale, Thorin?" Balin's question was spoken through chattering teeth, and Fíli pitied the old dwarf. He was hale as ever, but should not have had to journey in such conditions at his age.

Thorin shook his head. They'd not be sheltering in the ruins. Billa was in a dungeon, and Fíli knew his uncle wouldn't rest until he'd done everything he could to get her out of there. That meant seeking aid in Laketown, and if Thorin had plans beyond that, Fíli did not know.

The trek was long and hard, and it seemed unlikely (given the current weather) that it would take them any less than five or six days to reach Laketown. Fíli recalled, as though from another life, his frantic dash across the heath, in which he'd covered most of the distance between the Mountain and the Lake in a little over two days. At the time, though, he'd been driven by desperation and fear, had hardly rested, and traveled unburdened at nothing less than a jog until exhaustion had conquered him. There had also been no snow or ice on the ground or in the air.

When they stopped at last for the night, and Glóin lit a somewhat pathetic fire in the lee of a rocky outcropping, they finally opened the packs Dís had given them. Food indeed, and good travel rations. Bombur's work, if the smell was to be trusted. When he had found the time to make these loaves and dried meats and fruits was beyond Fíli's reckoning. More confusing, though, were items at the bottom of the first bag, some of which bore Billa's knots and distinctive care in wrapping. More dried provisions, spices and nuts.

"Thorin, you don't think they suspected-?" But Fíli didn't finish his question before it was answered.

"Lady Dís and I arranged for these provisions to be made and set aside," explained Balin quietly. "It was meant to be in preparation for a journey to Rivendell, to see your brother."

"But what's this?" Bofur pulled a sealed envelope from the top of the second pack. Fíli glanced at him, and felt the usual shock of seeing the gnarled scar across his forehead. The wound should have been fatal, but it seemed that he, like his brother before him, was unusually hardy.

"It's from Dís!" As soon as Bofur had announced this revelation, Thorin came to life, snatching the letter from his hands and reading it hungrily.

Fíli could hardly contain himself. What had she said? Why did his uncle look so relieved? Thorin handed the letter to him, and he read eagerly.

_Dearest Brother,_

_You are in grave danger, as is your One. Rest assured that I shall engineer her escape with all speed, and send her to you in Laketown._

_Deception is necessary, I'm afraid. Dain must believe he can trust me. Else, how will you reclaim our home?_

_Take care of Fíli and Ori. See them properly married, and quickly. I'll not have another grandchild born out of wedlock. And Elvish marriages don't count._

_Know that I am yet loyal to you, my king, and know also that any debt I owe the halfling is paid in full. After she is free, she must earn my favor on her own merit._

_Stay safe, and may you return swiftly._

_Your sister,_

_Dís_

Fíli worked hard to hide the heat creeping into his cheeks, though he figured his face was already fairly cold-reddened. For the moment, all thoughts of what had happened - Billa's arrest, Dain's usurpation - flew from his mind.

All that had taken place, and his mother's sense of propriety was still intact. Elvish weddings? Grandchildren?

Ori was staring at him expectantly, curious amidst her worrying. "What'd she say? Is everything... alright?"

"She's... she said she'd help Billa escape," he answered after a moment, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket. Ori didn't need to know about his mother's worries. They wouldn't. They hadn't. Fíli shivered. Not that he hadn't thought about it. Ori was looking very relieved, as was Thorin. With Dís on their side, things felt much more stable. They could handle this.

Thorin's relief, though, seemed to be kept in temperance. It was clear his fears were somewhat eased, but not completely allayed.

Fíli tried to get him to eat, but he wouldn't. He sat, bundled in his cloak against the hillside, and said nothing. As the young dwarf finally drifted off to sleep, Ori warm and soft against his side, he could still see the sputtering firelight gleaming in his uncle's eyes as he sat unmoving, his gaze fixed on the Mountain they'd left behind.

The morning came with a dusting of fresh snow, but it had melted by midday, and traveling was far easier with the sun on their faces and the wind soundly asleep. Still, the Company was reserved, and most avoided speaking in anything above the lowest of tones out of respect for Thorin, who did not speak at all unless directly addressed, and then only with the utmost brevity.

Fíli could well imagine what he was feeling. He'd felt it himself, or something very like it, when he'd run like a madman from Erebor to Laketown. Catapulting down a road, guided by a plume of black smoke and the terror of knowing Ori was beneath it... sometimes he returned to that moment in sleep, and it never grew any easier. The helpless horror was still very fresh in his mind.

Fíli cast a glance at Ori, and felt the knot of anxiety loosen a little in his chest. She was safe. She was beside him and walking on her own two feet and as healthy as ever. Healthy enough that his mother was afraid he was going to do something stupid.

_Like my brother did._

His cheeks warmed again, and he worked hard to take his mind off of that subject before Ori noticed and asked him what he was thinking about. The rest of the journey to Laketown was made in near silence, and the mood was somber. Fíli felt a sort of guilty pleasure, traveling with his uncle again. He enjoyed traveling more than he would have liked to admit, considering his duties as Thorin's heir. He would need to stay in the Mountain - as soon as they won it back. Again.

Laketown was clean and bright, the wood had a new, scrubbed look that made it seem almost worthwhile for the old buildings to have burned down. Several people noted their entrance and in fairly short order, Bard and his son Bain were striding down one of the broad walkways to meet them.

"Hail, Mountain King!" Bard's voice was almost as grim as Thorin's expression. "You're always welcome here, Thorin." Perhaps it was just good politics, but Bard had never been one for false pretences.

"For that, we are grateful." Thorin took a step closer, surveying the buildings beyond Bard and his son, reasonably impressed. "It seems your representatives at the Coronation arrived here before us, though I suppose our appearance and lack of escort are telling enough as to what has taken place in the Mountain."

"So it's true, Da?" Bain frowned confusedly up at his father. "He's really not king anymore?"

"Bain, a king is not a king because he rules a kingdom. He is a king because he takes responsibility for what is his." This grave lesson was witnessed and even approved of by the dwarves. Balin especially seemed touched by Bard's words.

"Friends, please come, warm yourselves. The weather has not been kind to you." Bard gestured for Thorin to follow him, his eyes sweeping over the group. "Some of your number are missing?"

Fíli spared his uncle the explanation, stepping forward to answer. "We still expect one or two from the Mountain within the next few days." He hoped Bard wouldn't question it, and the taciturn bowman didn't disappoint him. With a nod, Bard turned to lead them to a new guest hall, which had been erected for this purpose.

"You have done well here," Thorin said, gesturing to the buildings around them as they went along.

Bard nodded. "The rebuilding process was easier than it had seemed at first. Less houses to be built, and the layout was planned and considered by skilled architects. Some of the larger timbers were able to be salvaged, as well as most of the stone, and the piers. We also had many hands willing to help us... men from the south, and further east. Some have decided to stay on, at least for awhile. There are good opportunities here for business and trade."

The guest hall was centrally located, and when they had reached the courtyard, Bard turned to catch the dwarf's gaze.

"The men I sent to witness your coronation in my stead... they said you would not agree to the oath set forth by your cousin, and that is why Dain now wears the crown. Is that true?"

Fíli glanced swiftly at his uncle, and saw the hard lines around his eyes and mouth deepen slightly. The reminder that he, not Dain, had been ultimately responsible for the usurper's success, was as a sharp pebble in his boot, a thorn in his glove. Fíli wished he could have said something to ease his uncle's burden of guilt, but it was just as much his fault as Thorin's. He, too, had refused the oath.

"It is true," said Thorin shortly.

"How did they get here before us?" Bofur's question distracted Bard enough that the man looked away from Thorin, allowing him a moment to compose himself.

"They were mounted," he explained. "The horses were purchased from the herd left by the Great Bear. Well-trained beasts, but a little wild."

The guest rooms were sparsely furnished, but solid and clean, equipped with bunks, blankets, and little else. The commons had a fireplace and a long table, much like the previous version. Fíli remembered well that night he and Ori had sat on the hearth ledge and... well. He fought back a grin. He'd made a complete fool of himself.

"I will send someone to lay a fire," said Bard presently, "and you may take your ease until the meal is ready. We've constructed a viewing deck on the upper level," he indicated a stairway leading off the commons, "so visiting dignitaries and guests might have a better look at the town. It's beautiful up there. At night, the streetlamps and stars gleam upon the water in such a way that..." He trailed off, eyes deepening mournfully in the dim light. "Tilda would have said it was _magical._ "

A soft shiver passed through the warm body pressed against his side, and Fíli glanced down into Ori's face. She was pale, and her eyes were dark with guilt and grief. It couldn't have been more obvious that she still felt responsible for the death of Bard's youngest child, though there wasn't anything she could have possibly done. The blond wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to himself. Bard shook his head as though to clear it, continuing without seeming to notice the somber mood that had settled even more deeply over his guests.

"I shall see a fire laid and food brought to you. Please, make yourselves comfortable and take your ease."

Fíli waited until Bard had gone, then sat on the hearth ledge with a groan. His feet and legs were sore, and he wondered if he was getting a bit out of shape. Without Kee there to insist on his training, he tended to sit around more than usual. His brother's absence, as always, was keenly felt.

Ori settled onto the ledge beside him, leaning against him with a gentle sigh. FÍli put an arm around her, nuzzling her soft hair. "Tired, love?" he whispered close to her ear.

He felt her shiver again, though this time he liked to think it wasn't because she felt guilty. A rosy tint touched her cheeks, and Fíli couldn't help but smile.

"Y-yeah. Just tired. Seems like... well, it's been a long time, hasn't it? Since we were traveling, I mean." Ori's quiet observation was a powerful reminder.

"I guess it has been. Almost five months, I think. Somewhere thereabouts, anyway." On the one hand, it felt like an eternity. On the other hand, it seemed hardly a blink since their dance at the farewell feast, here in Laketown.

Dori had seated himself at a chair by the table, and sat looking at them pensively. Or _through_ them. Fíli couldn't tell. He still felt a bit awkward being openly affectionate with Ori while her brother was present, but then, he pitied the fastidious dwarf. On the quest, he, Nori, and Ori had been thick as thieves. Without either of them, Dori had to have felt out of place. And lonely.

Seeming to have just noticed he'd been caught staring, Dori turned to look at the group sorting through what belongings they'd brought. In their haste to leave, it seemed some of them hadn't been able to pack more than the barest of essentials. A change of clothes or two, and (particularly in Glóin's case) a few pouches of coins or other personal valuables.

The ginger dwarf forlornly hefted his coin purse, shaking his head. "That won't be enough to get us much in the way of supplies, I fear. We might have to stay on and offer our services here until we've enough to get on with. It's a powerful long trek with no beasts of burden."

Bofur shrugged. "Not to worry. One way or another, we'll get where we're trying to go. I could do with  a working holiday in Laketown."

"I hope there's ample work in... textiles." Dori's tone was doubtful. Work there might be, but his talent would surely be wasted on Laketown's fisherfolk.

"Oh, aye," Bofur agreed, winking, "they'll put ya at mendin' nets, right enough. And maybe, if ya get lucky, sailcloth."

"Very funny." Dori sighed unhappily, picking at a loose thread on his quilted tunic. He propped his chin on his hands, muttering to himself. "Just when we were getting settled in to our new lives... why did this have to happen?"

Fíli winced. Perhaps it was a sensitive topic, and he was overreacting, but Dori's question had struck a nerve. As though there were someone to blame for their misfortune. Bofur had heard, and so had Dwalin, but the others seemed distracted with their own tasks.

"Yer free te go back," Dwalin pointed out, perhaps with more hostility than necessary. "Yer not the one who refused the oath, are ye?" It wasn't really a question. Dori frowned.

"I didn't say I wouldn't follow Thorin," he retorted primly, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. "It was a rhetorical question. Not that I'd expect you to know what that means."

Fíli reluctantly released Ori and stood. "Backbiting won't solve anything. If you can't find a way to make yourselves useful, I'll assign you tasks." The authority felt strange, like armor many sizes too big. Fíli wasn't sure he wanted to feel its weight. But Thorin had disappeared up to the viewing deck, and Balin was engaged in a serious discussion with Glóin about funds.

Neither dwarf questioned or protested Fíli's words, but he thought he could sense resentment in the way they settled back into their seats.

Fíli felt a gentle hand at his back. "Maybe you should go sit with your uncle for a while. I think... he needs you." Ori's words eased some of the tension from his body, and he nodded slowly.

"He'll probably resent my encroaching on his privacy, but I think you're right."

The blond proceeded up the stairs, glancing back as a young lad bearing an armload of wood entered the commons.

"Leave it with us," Bofur said. "We'll have that fire goin' in a jiffy."

The deck above was spacious and sturdy, smelling strongly of fresh varnish; a sharp, forest-y smell, not unlike pitch. Fíli spotted Thorin standing at the railing on the far side, looking out over the houses and watery expanse, his gaze fixed upon the mist-shrouded Mountain in the distance.

The young dwarf moved to stand beside him, resting his hands on the smooth wood of the railing. "Mam will see she's kept safe, Uncle. A more formidable force than Dís, daughter of Thrain, the world has not seen." It was spoken partially in jest, of course, but there was a certain truth to it.

Fíli saw Thorin's head dip slightly in acknowledgment of the statement, but his gaze remained fixed on the Mountain. The blond tried to imagine what it would be like if Ori were the one trapped in the Mountain, accused of treason, locked in a dungeon. He shuddered. It had been bad enough to think she might have been injured or killed in Smaug's attack on Laketown. To imagine that she might, even now, be waiting for the ax to fall, was enough to inspire the same sort of frantic protectiveness he'd felt when he knew his brother and uncle were engaged in a battle against an uncountable orc army and he wasn't there to defend them.

"The hardest part," whispered Thorin, so quietly that the words were nearly lost in the wind, "is knowing there's nothing I can do. It's Thranduil's dungeons all over again. It's watching her walk into the dragon's den and knowing she might not come back."

Fíli hadn't honestly expected that sort of confidence from his uncle, but there was a gleam of pride in him now. It was as though something had changed between them, and he wasn't just a dwarrow anymore. Not someone to be protected and sheltered, but someone to be trusted, to be confided in.

"I wish... I almost wish I'd taken the oath. I mean, not to take the throne," he added quickly, "but so Dain's plan would've been thwarted. Once he was gone - I'd have sent him back to the Iron Hills after the Coronation - I could have entrusted the crown to its rightful owner and none of this would've happened. I feel..."

He stared down at the icy water, scoffing a little at his own sense of shame. He knew what his uncle would say, and yet kept on. It seemed they both had a need to confide in someone. "I feel as though this is somehow my fault. The way I reacted. I didn't exactly protest... not as much as I might have. Do you think... it would have made a difference?"

There was a beat of silence, filled only with the mournful hissing of the wind. On the one hand, it was comforting to know that his uncle was taking his words seriously. On the other, he wished it didn't take so long for him to offer assurances.

Slowly, Thorin shook his dark head. "I've played it over in my mind a hundred times. That oath... he and his 'nobles' would have demanded immediate action. Against Billa and I, at least, if not against your brother." They shared a shudder, and turned their eyes to the Mountain.

"I hope Kee is okay."

"They're all in Mahal's hands now." Thorin's voice was quietly grim, and Fíli knew he meant Billa and Tauriel, too. Waiting had never been a pleasant activity. This would be no exception.

"Pray the first strike will land true. The metal is certainly hot enough."


	8. Fractured; Dwalin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company deals with the most irritating of virtues--patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is late. Five days late. To be honest, I didn't even realize the fifteenth had passed until I looked at my calendar today. Then I said, "Whoa, when did that happen?" and immediately rushed to edit and post a new chapter.   
> Loki and I are closing in on our buffer again (much big real-life happenings here) and we may (at some point in the next few weeks) need to take another hiatus. Rest assured that you will be forewarned, and that I will have other things to post for you in the meantime. :) Enjoy chapter eight.

"But it's the third one I've found!" Fíli's voice was anguished, and Dwalin resisted the urge to punch something.

"We've all found 'em, lad. It's nothin' we're not already dealin' with." Everyone was on edge, everyone was tense. And one or the other of their Company giving in to that fear wasn't going to help anyone.

"But it was in the common room, right where she usually sits!"

"Fíli, _get a grip._ There's nothin' we can do about it. Lettin' yerself get scared like this-"

"But-" The beginning of another protest. It was too much for Dwalin. Grasping the blond dwarf by the shoulders, the warrior shook him soundly.

"Let it go. Ain't nothin' ye can do about it."

"Dwalin." Fíli sounded practically unhinged, though more broken than frantic now, clinging to Dwalin with one hand, waving the wrinkled scrap of parchment in the hulking dwarf's face with the other. "There _has_ to be something we can do. I won't just sit around waiting for- for whatever they're going to do to us. To _her._ I can't. I'll go mad."

Dwalin released Fíli with a grunt, snatching the note away. In small, scrawling script, it read, simply, _Watching._ All the notes they'd received these past few days had been equally cryptic, but no less troubling, many one word, or even unknown symbols, all in the same blackest of black ink, and the same hand.

Dwalin shook his head slowly, feeling a familiar chill creep up his spine. Dain. It had to be Dain. They'd all agreed. The usurper must have had a spy set to watch them here in Laketown, to what point and purpose, it wasn't clear. Surely not an assassin, or he'd had his chance and missed it many times over. Each time, the notes had been found in places they frequented, especially the guest quarters, and no one had seen anyone suspicious in or around the dwarves' current residence.

"We'll get to the bottom of this, lad," Dwalin said finally. "I'll talk to Thorin. Now steel your nerves, and keep an eye on your lass."

For a moment, they studied one another, and Dwalin could see the bald fear in Fíli's young face. His beard had come in nicely, but there was none of his uncle's hardened anger in his eyes. In a way, he supposed that was a good thing, but it made the young dwarf all the more vulnerable to tactics like this. Then the moment passed. Fíli set his jaw and nodded, seeming to take confidence from the idea that something, _anything,_ was being done. He turned back the way he had come. He had probably left Ori behind, not explained anything to her. Dwalin shook his head.

With a grunt, he heaved himself away from the wall, leaving his crutch stubbornly in the corner as he limped toward the stairs. As usual, Thorin would be on the viewing deck, staring at the Mountain. As though watching it would make things happen any faster.

_The sons of Durin are addled with love,_ Dwalin thought, and not without a hint of sourness. He had no complaint about a dwarf finding his One, but when more important things, like survival and dignity, were cast aside in its wake, "love" started to take on a rather displeasing aspect.

Maneuvering the stairs took longer than he would have liked, limping carefully up one step at a time and balancing painfully on the metal peg that had replaced his foot. The more he used it, the easier it would become. He only wished it would become easier more quickly.

"Thorin, lad, I think we may need to be a little more active about this." Dwalin made it onto the deck and stumped heavily toward his king. Thorin had the pale, shadowy look that Balin sometimes had in the evenings. Torn between pity and frustration, Dwalin limped closer and put a hand on Thorin's shoulder. "Thorin? Ye've wandered off again."

Thorin's face jerked a little toward Dwalin, and for a moment, the hulking dwarf saw a look he could only describe as a raging sea held back by a failing dam. The halfling needed to return soon. Thorin was breaking.

"The notes." Dwalin proffered his king the latest one, and Thorin read it silently, frowning.

"'Watching'?" Thorin shrugged listlessly. "What does he think I intend to do? You don't suppose he's discovered..." His face paled noticeably.

"Well, if he has, it's not on account of his spies. When the first of the notes came, I made it clear no one was to speak of the Mountain or what had happened there." Dwalin leaned a little closer. "We burned yer sister's letter the first night."

Thorin nodded, looking mildly reassured. "I will speak with Bard. Perhaps he will look into the matter."

"Whatever ya do, lad, do it quickly." Dwalin's tone was grave. "This Company's not goin' ta hold together much longer. It's got every one of 'em on edge, and I'd be a damned liar if I said that didn't include me."

After a moment, Thorin nodded. Dwalin could only hope he realized how close they were to breaking apart, but Thorin had never been the best at recognizing his own weaknesses.

"Come." The simple command was, in a way, comforting. Dwalin nodded and followed his king as the dwarf made his way down the stairs and through the commons. Bard's new quarters were in the building adjoining the guest hall, just as solidly built and just as sparsely furnished. One could tell, just walking through the entryway, that Bard lived at the same standard as his people, not in plush luxury as his predecessor had. The girl that led them to Bard's study was slight, with brown hair and a face that recalled the new lord's. Dwalin concluded that this was his surviving daughter, the one that the she-elf had saved on the lake. By the time they had reached the study, Dwalin knew he was obviously favoring his injured leg. The pain was becoming harder to deal with, and he needed to sit if he was going to make the trek back to the guest hall with any speed.

"Da, it's the dwarves." The girl opened the door, and stepped aside.

Bard stood at once, his quill dropping back into its inkpot with a glassy ring.

"Come in, Mountain King. An unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?"

Thorin's look was troubled, and Bard's face quickly shifted from welcoming to concerned. "Your lodgings are alright, I hope?"

"The lodgings are fine," said Dwalin, settling onto a low stool by the wall, arms crossed. "We've come to report suspicious goin’s on these past few days, threatenin’ notes left for us to find. It's got us all in a bad way, jumpin' at every noise."

"We think Dain has a spy here in Laketown," Thorin spoke up finally. "But we haven't noticed anyone lurking about. We wanted to know if you'd heard any similar reports, seen anything... strange going on."

Bard's concerned expression darkened, and Thorin offered him the most recent of the notes, crumpled and worn, from the pocket of his coat. In that coat, Dwalin reflected, his king looked like an alarmed animal, hackles bristling about his neck and shoulders. The lord of Laketown looked no more comforted by the note than Thorin himself had done.

"I haven't received any reports, but you can rest assured I'll have my men watching the bridge and the hall more carefully tonight." With a sigh, the man opened a cabinet at his elbow and withdrew a dark bottle and three glasses. "If you would care for a drink, gentlemen, I'll see to it that this is taken care of immediately."

Thorin hesitated, but Dwalin didn't. "Do what ya need, lad. We'll take our own measures."

"Are you sure?" Bard lifted the glasses slightly, and Dwalin was surprised when Thorin answered.

"A drink wouldn't hurt, I suppose."

Things, Dwalin thought soberly, must have been pretty bad, if Thorin was looking to the bottle for comfort.

So as to downplay this somewhat discomfiting turn, Dwalin accepted a drink, as well. It wasn't bad stuff, he decided, if a little thin for his liking, and he figured it wouldn't hurt to calm his nerves a little.

Bard slipped out, leaving the two to themselves. A moment passed in silence, and Thorin sat staring down into his drink. Dwalin wiped his mouth, having finished his in two draughts.

"You don't think he knows anythin' about this, do ya?" It was a terrible thing, really, doubting the former bargeman's sincerity after his kindness to them, but if Dwalin didn't consider all options, he knew he was doing his king a disservice.

From the shudder that passed through Thorin, and the way he took a quick drink, the thought wasn't pleasant to him, either.

"It would be foolish not to watch him," he answered at length. No, Dwalin concluded, Thorin didn't think Bard guilty of treachery any more than he did, but there was no willingness in either of them to risk being wrong. Not with so much at stake.

"I'll see it done," Dwalin rumbled.

At great length, Bard returned, and the look of grim concern on his face didn't ease either dwarf's sense of foreboding.

"There have been some strangers seen in town, but none are Dwarves. I'm afraid that if there are Dwarves about that aren't in your Company, they are very stealthy. More likely, I think, your cousin has Men in his employ."

Dwalin felt a surge of mixed disbelief and uncertainty. Dain, with his fixed, inflexible distrust of other races, couldn't possibly ally himself with Men. But if he thought it was the best way to get rid of Thorin... would he?

If Thorin was equally surprised, he didn't let on. "Then I urge you to take greater stock, sir, of the men you have employed in Laketown's rebuilding. It is likely to be one of them."

"Aye." Dwalin nodded his agreement. "That'd be my guess. If ya've a mind to catch the one responsible for this, I'd suggest puttin' out a few spies of yer own." The necessity for such an underhanded practice grated on Dwalin's sense of nobility, and yet, he saw that Bard himself was too busy to be expected to get to the bottom of the matter. "Some men to mingle with the workers, maybe, and keep an eye out, and an ear open."

Bard made no secret of the distaste he felt for such a necessity. "It will be done," he assented reluctantly. "I suggest you return to your quarters and take your rest. Would that I could join you."

The meal that evening was quiet, which was becoming the new normal, and no one seemed to like it. There was tension in every face, every look, every movement. Dwalin passed his brother the little box of salt, and Balin sprinkled a little over his fish with a small sigh. Dwalin might've had a small gripe in the fact they'd had fish for every meal since they'd arrived, but in light of all that was going on, it seemed petty.

The hulking dwarf couldn't help but notice how Fíli's gaze kept wandering to the windows, as though he thought some prowler was watching him whenever his back was turned. Ridiculous, this. Someone was going to have to be the one to talk sense into Thorin if he couldn't make the call himself.

If the halfling didn't return... they couldn't wait forever. They couldn't go on like this, waiting for someone to catch them unawares. Kill them in their sleep.

"How long, Thorin?" Dwalin asked quietly, though it seemed fairly useless considering no one else was talking and could have heard him even had he whispered. "How long before we... move on?" It was a sensitive topic, and he thought even as he'd spoken that the question should have waited for privacy.

As every eye turned on Thorin, the silence became more complete than the darkness outside the windows. The wait was interminable, but eventually, Thorin sighed.

"We'll speak on it later," he muttered, reaching for his cup. Dwalin tensed, the impatience and tension of the past few days bursting into full strength as he prepared to spring to his feet. It was a habit that made him do it, more than any real intention to stand.

"Thorin, we can't wait forever. Risking all our lives for the sake of one halfling isn't what a king would do." In one way, he was appalled by his own words. In other ways, he knew these things needed to be said, either by him or by another - and Thorin was less likely to challenge him to a duel than Glóin or Dori for saying things like this.

Thorin withdrew his hand, straightening in his chair. A fierce, wounded light flared up in his eyes, his brows lowering over them like storm clouds. "You will not refer to my One in such a way, Dwalin. Even were she not dear to my heart, I would protect her honor with my life. But for her, we would have been ruined many times over, or is your memory truly so brief?"

Balin put a hand on Thorin's arm. "He didn't mean it like that, lad. There's no need to take offense."

Thorin shook Balin's hand off as though the old dwarf's touch burned with insult. He continued to stare at Dwalin, as though trying to force his comrade to admit his fault through sheer willpower.

"We would be ruined, aye, but would ye have us lay down our lives when there's nothing to be done? Should we wait here for Dain's men, twiddling our thumbs while your One wastes in a dungeon?" Dwalin laid his hands on the table. It was supposed to be a gesture of futility, but the dinnerware rattled under the force of it. Thorin hissed softly.

"Don't you think I would be there now if I could? I would risk my life for her." There was no mistaking his devotion, to be sure, but Dwalin wasn't convinced his king knew what was at stake.

"But yer life ain't the only one at risk here, Thorin. Look at yer nephew. Would ya let him lose _his_ One?"

Fíli tensed, his gaze flashing to Ori, reaching almost convulsively for her hand.

Thorin looked away briefly, his anger held, for a moment, in check. "You are not bound to me. You are all free to go your way, if such is your wish. Do what you think is best, and be assured I will do the same."

"We're not leavin' ya," Dwalin said, lowering his head a little. "You know we'd go with ya to death, if that's what ya asked. But that doesn't mean we have to let ya order us there without knowing what ya do."

Thorin exhaled heavily, slouching in his chair a little. "A few more days. That is all I ask. After that, we will..." He swallowed. "We will return to Ered Luin and... regroup." Dwalin knew that was as close to a concession as he was likely to get, and let the subject rest.

The promise of action seemed, over the next 48 hours, to severely fracture that which the notes had already damaged in Thorin. The dwarf took to pacing erratically, muttering to himself and jumping at the slightest sound. He spent, if anything, _more_ time on the viewing deck, peering desperately through the mists toward the Mountain. It was, therefore, Thorin himself who crowed the alarm, bounding down the stairs and looking quite mad one evening.

"A light! A light on the heath!"

Dwalin lunged to his feet like a startled bull and immediately regretted it as pain flared in his leg. "What're ya bellowin' about?" He braced himself against the wall as Thorin skidded to a halt in the middle of the room, pointing over his shoulder at the stairs.

"A light," he repeated, seeming to be struggling for some sort of composure, "on the heath. It's coming from the Mountain. Just one light."

Out of the silence erupted excited babble from the others, all of whom had been listening.

"Could it be her?"

"Alone? I don't know."

"It's Dain! Sharpen your axes, lads."

"But it's only one light. It can't be a host-"

"Quiet!" Dwalin felt the beginnings of a nasty headache, and pushed it roughly aside, towering over Bofur and Ori, who were closest to him. "We can't know anythin' fer sure 'til it gets here. Ori, Fíli, git up ta the deck and keep an eye out. The rest of ya, pack yer things and arm yerselves."

All was done silently, and with reasonable efficiency. The swords and axes they’d brought and bartered for glinted dully in the spare lamplight as the small group filed out the door of the commons, Thorin in the lead, Dwalin bringing up the end. They proceeded carefully down the gangplank, past the sleeping houses. Other than the scattered laughter and carousing from the local tavern, the town was quiet and calm.

"How far out was the light?" Balin whispered when they'd reached the bridge.

"Hard to say." Thorin's reply was brief, and Dwalin realize they might have something of a long walk ahead of them. The light of a single torch in the night could be seen from many miles away.

Peering out into the darkness, the hulking dwarf shook his head. "I don't see it, lad." There was a faint doubt creeping into his mind. His King had been so desperate... what if his mind had conjured the light? Wishful thinking?

Then Dori spoke up. "There! Right there." He pointed excitedly off into the darkness, over the bridge, and slightly off to their right. "I see it. The light!"

"Keep it down, would ya?" Glóin hissed.

Dwalin looked where Dori was still pointing, though the fastidious dwarf had turned to fix Glóin with a glare. Sure enough, a tiny point of light winked in the distance, no bigger than a small star seemed in the night sky.

"Let's go. Let's go," he urged, nudging the line of dwarves on again.

The spring night crackled with a thin layer of ice, the wind brisk and cold on their faces. Winter's bone-deep chill seemed to have receded some, however, and this was a mild comfort to the Company as they made their way over rough terrain toward the distant, winking light. While the dwarves made all haste, at Dwalin's insistence, they muffled their weapons and traveled as stealthily as speed would allow. He might had also played up the pain in his leg a bit to force Thorin to slow his pace. Dwalin knew, though his king seemed reluctant to admit it, that moderation and balance were necessary in night travel.

An hour passed. Two hours. The wind sang a mournful song through the rocks about them. At the turn of the third hour, Thorin's cry broke the silence that had lain over them.

"The light! It's gone!"

"Keep your voice down." Balin's words were hushed, and against the faint starlight, Dwalin could see his brother's outline as he put a hand on Thorin's shoulder.

"We've lost our heading," whispered Bofur nervously. "Do you think she dropped the torch?"

"Maybe we should wait for them to light it again," suggested Glóin, his suspicious tones drawing a soft hiss of protest from Thorin.

"Continuing now would be foolish," Dwalin growled, gripping his crutch a little tighter. He'd have left it behind if he could have kept up without it. "Let's wait. If the torch lights again, we'll continue. If not, we set out in the morning, when we have light."

Thorin turned on Dwalin, the faint moonlight setting a feral glint in his eyes. "Stay here, if you will, then!" he hissed. "She's out here in the darkness, just as we are, and I'll not wait until morning to make sure she is safe."

Dwalin could tell by his tone he was working himself into one of his mulish moods, and soon wouldn't recognize sound advice if it clobbered him over the head. "Thorin," he said, gently as he could manage, "don't. If she's made it this far on her own, what're a few more miles? More'n likely, she'll be waitin' fer us when we get back to town in the mornin', and scold ya fer bein' a fool."

Thorin seemed just as likely to disregard his words as to listen, but after a moment's pause, he sighed. The dwarf was shaking slightly, and Dwalin couldn't imagine what could possibly be going through his mind. Addled by love? Among other things, it seemed.

"Dori, watch for that light. Yer eyes are the sharpest." Dwalin urged the others to sit for a while. If the light returned, they would be ready for it.

But it didn't.

Minutes crawled together until they formed ponderous hours. They didn't dare risk a fire, as Glóin repeated stubbornly - it might just as well be Dain and his folk.

When dawn broke over the rocky heath the dwarves roused themselves and immediately began to scan the land about them for any sign of a hobbit. Thorin, barely suppressing his own frantic energy, urged them on, rather than back. There were gullies and ridges and tiny canyons scattered in every direction, a hundred places a little hobbit might have fallen, a million places she might be lying, injured and unseen. Bofur found tracks, but they were too large to belong to a hobbit, too small to belong to dwarves, and too numerous to belong to elves.

"But what's a company of Men doing out on the heath in the middle of the night?"

Dori's question sparked worried mutters among the others. Dwalin frowned, glancing about. Had he been wrong about Bard?

Thorin looked stricken. "Keep looking. She may be... hiding." There wasn't much hope in the words, but he seemed unwilling to give up. "Please. We must keep looking."

The tracks led, within a few minutes, to a shale field, and were lost. Casting about with the others amongst the brittle, angular rocks, Dori gave a small cry. "Here!" The others turned sharply to see what he'd found.

A thin, tattered scrap of off-white wool. Thorin's breath caught in his throat. "It's hers. It's definitely hers."

Dwalin didn't consider himself mindful of small details like changes of clothing, but even he recognized the material. The trim of Billa's blue velvet coat. She'd changed into it after the usurpation, been wearing it at her arrest.

Why she'd been wearing the thing at all was a bit of a mystery to Dwalin. It was many sizes too big for her. Still, this evidence chilled his heart just as it did Thorin's.

"They have her." Dori looked horrified. "Why would they take her?"

"They must be in cahoots with Dain," growled Glóin. "Thorin we gotta track 'em down! No one takes our burglar!"

Dwalin barked an order for silence, and the dwarves reluctantly obeyed. Thorin was already casting about for more signs of Billa's passage, or the men that had taken her, the scrap of wool clutched in one hand. He was, as usual, ignoring everything around him in favor of doing what he felt needed to be done, and done _now._ Dwalin couldn't honestly blame him. Without Fíli around to help him track, the warrior looked to the others.

"Who's the best at tracking?" Kíli would have been the natural choice, if he'd been present, but with so many of their number missing, there were many gaps in their cumulative skill set.

"I'm a fair hand at trackin'," offered Bofur after a moment's hesitation, and Dwalin nodded. "You're with me, then. Glóin, keep a rear guard." With half an eye on Thorin, Dwalin limped toward the last sign they'd had of Billa and her captors. They knew, at least, which direction the party had been heading when they entered the shale field.

Thorin ended up in the lead (which was just fine by Dwalin - easier to keep an eye on him that way) and they proceeded across the field with all speed. They found the Men faster than they would have thought, though. The trail led into a steep gulch. A beat after the last dwarf had stepped warily into the shadow of its rocky slopes, weapons drawn, the ambush was sprung.

The dwarves, on edge, weapons drawn, were in a good position to defend themselves, and the defense they mounted was, indeed, admirable. Thorin and Dwalin were the last to be disarmed, and not before they'd slain three men a piece, and wounded many others. In the end, though, all were overwhelmed and bound securely.

Their captors were poorly clothed, cloaks tattered and threadbare, but their weapons were surprisingly solid and in good repair, straight swords, scimitars, and longbows, clean and well-made.

"Bind their eyes, and form up," barked one, an exceptionally tall man in dark green. He scowled at the bound dwarves, and his gaze drifted over the bodies of the slain. "Leave the dead. The ground is too hard to bury them, and a pyre will draw attention."

"Sir, we could build a cairn. Can't just leave 'em lying so. Ain't proper." The voice that protested was young, Dwalin noted, though hidden behind the ranks of men.

"We've no time for a cairn. Let the earth and sky have them, and the foul deeds of these murderers be known to the world."

"But sir-" The young voice protested again, and the ragged leader turned to face the group with a scowl.

"Then bring them, if you will. Carry them into the caves. If you fall behind, you'll be left behind."

The men murmured unhappily, but obediently wound strips of cloth torn from the cloaks of the dead about the dwarves' eyes and marched them away. Dwalin thought he could hear the tread of two or three light-footed men behind them, and the scrape of limp bodies over loose shale as the dead were taken to cover.

They had gone some distance before anything changed notably. Dwalin had trouble keeping up with the stiff pace, stumbling often as his peg slipped now and again on the loose rock and scree. The quality of the sounds ahead altered as they slowed, becoming hollow, echoing faintly. They were being taken into a tunnel, a solid one by the sound of it, and not one that had been excavated by any hand, human or otherwise. He recalled tales of mines beyond the walls of the mountain city, natural caves that had been found and excavated by the earliest dwarf settlers, before the Mountain had been hollowed and mined.

When three of the men and one dwarf peeled off from the group, a protest went up immediately from the remnant of the Company. The struggle resumed, but bound and blindfolded as they were, it was impossible to fight their captors with any success. New voices joined the old ones, these heavier, darker, and thick with accents of swarthy southern men. Augmented numbers gave the men courage, and with many quiet accusations and threats, the dwarves were shunted down a long, sloping tunnel. The floor beneath their feet became smoother, more polished, and Dwalin concluded that he had been right about his theory - natural caves above, and dwarf-made mines below. Several turns brought them to a messy halt, and the screech of hinges heralded the opening of three separate doors. In small groups, the dwarves were shoved into their new cells and left, the doors closed and locked behind them. Not a one was unbound, their eyes still held fast by dirty blindfolds. The din they created, trying to keep track of one another, was deafening.

"Sound off, one at a time!" bellowed Dwalin, rubbing his cheek furiously against his shoulder in an attempt to remove the blindfold. "Thorin?"

There was no answer, but Dwalin didn't expect there to be. He cursed, then continued. "Dori?"

"Present."

"Bofur?"

"Here. Bleedin', but here."

"Glóin?"

"Aye."

"Balin?"

"I'm here, Brother."

"Is that all of us?"

"Not quite." This voice was neither male nor dwarven. A chorus of relieved shouts went up from the dwarves.

"Billa!"

"Yeah, that's me. Are you lot okay? It sounded like there was fighting."

"They took us unawares," Balin explained quietly. "Thankfully, we're mostly in once piece."

"Thorin was hurt," Bofur offered, sounding a little pained. "Blood in his hair, and lots of it. Must've taken a blow to the head."

"Where do ya think they've hustled him off to?" Glóin asked. "Miss Baggins, what do ya know about these men?"

"Not much," she answered with a sigh. Her voice echoed in the passage beyond the door Dwalin leaned against, and he could only assume that she was in a cell of her own. "They came on me last night, when I was heading to Laketown to meet you. Thorin isn't... he'll be alright, won't he?" The concern in her voice was telling, but so was the roughness to the words, as though she'd been coughing or yelling a lot recently.

"Lass, he's Thorin. He'll be fine. We're more worried about _you._ Did they hurt ye?" It was important, Dwalin told himself, that the hobbit was at least relatively unharmed. If she was injured, there would be no reasoning with Thorin. And if he was a bit worried about her himself, that had nothing to do with it.

"I'll be fine. But look, there's something you need to know. These men... they aren't who you think they are."

"They're not?" Balin's voice came through the darkness, from the cell to Dwalin's left. "Who do we think they are?"

"Well, they're not working for Dain, that's for sure."

"Then who?" Dori's perplexed tone was close at hand, and Dwalin decided he was in the next cell over, his voice echoing slightly against the stone. How many cells could they have had time to construct down here? "Who _are_ they working for, Miss Baggins?"

There was only a slight pause, and Dwalin sensed, as he finally managed to rub the blindfold off, that the hobbit was deciding how to answer the question. "Do you remember, back when we first arrived in Laketown..."


	9. Measure of a King; Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin meets the one who ordered them taken captive, and the Company is reunited with its Burglar.
> 
> NOTE: This chapter may be considered graphically violent; it contains both physical and emotional torture. A summary will be posted in the end notes for those of you who do not wish to be exposed to this content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-long chapter today! It's about twice the length of our normal chapters... take it as a sort of apology for our joke yesterday. :) For those of you that read yesterday's chapter, we want to say we're not actually sorry, but we hope you'll forgive us for having a little laugh on April Fool's Day. For those of you that didn't read yesterday's chapter, it can be found here--> http://archiveofourown.org/works/3667626 
> 
> And now, without further ado, I give you the _actual_ chapter nine. Enjoy the drama!

Thorin staggered along automatically, placing one foot in front of the other consuming most of his mental faculties. His head throbbed with a vengeance, bright light flashing at all too regular intervals in his skull. Each time he nearly stumbled, rough hands pulled him upright and shoved him along once more.

At length, he perceived he'd entered a separate room or chamber. The hands released him and he pitched forward to his knees, hard. When his mind returned, he realized it was warm in here, warm as none of the rest of the tunnels had been. Even if it hadn't been, the strong scent of smoke would've betrayed the presence of fire.

"At last," said a voice presently, oily, oozing satisfaction. "At last, the great Thorin Oakenshield is mine. I knew if we'd caught your little mouse, we'd have you in the same net shortly enough."

There was something familiar about that voice, but the throbbing that bounced around the inside of his skull didn't allow for much remembering. The warmth of the fire, however welcome, wasn't helping the pain any. One thing penetrated, though.

"Billa. You have Billa? Where is she? If you hurt her, I'll-"

"You'll what?" The oily, satisfied voice interrupted him, and a slight shift in the warmth and sound of the fire told Thorin that the owner of that voice had moved, and was now standing between him and the flames. "Will you kill us, like you killed the others? Or maybe you'll call a dragon down from the North to burn our homes."

Thorin frowned. Maybe he'd been hit harder than he thought, but the man's words weren't making any sense at all. "Whatever your quarrel is, it is with me, not the halfling. Let her go. She has nothing to do with this."

"We never had that choice." This voice was new, throatier, darker. The accent was thick with the lilt of the lands to the south. "My wife, my unborn child - they died. Would that I could have taken the dragon's quarrel with them on my own shoulders." Strong fingers pulled the blindfold off. "But this is not the blond one I spoke to before. Where is he?"

Dazzled by the light of the fire, Thorin blinked, eyes watering. The pain in his head intensified, and he could only see vague, dark shapes moving about the chamber. Two of them.

"This is the King Under the Mountain," said the first voice, dripping with contempt. "The blond one is nothing."

 _They don't have Fíli,_ Thorin thought desperately. _They don't have either of them. My nephews are safe._  In all of this, why was there a fear of Dís hovering at the back of his mind?

"Let them go," he rasped, the pain escalating until he felt nauseous. "It's me you want. Let the price fall on my head."

"Oh, but it _will_ fall on your head, dwarf king." The Southron spoke softly, and it made the threat of his words all the more chilling. "You will pay the same price the rest of us did, and when we have tormented your heart so you feel you must die for the pain, we will not allow you that relief."

A flash of metal, coal-bright in the firelight, drew Thorin's recovering eyes, and he felt a cold edge tracing a stinging, but superficial line beneath his jaw. A warm trickle ran down his neck, but the dwarf did not flinch, or react in any way. The dark shape before him grinned, his teeth flashing white.

"My blade has had its first taste of vengeance, and soon it will be sated with the blood of those you love. You will hear their screams even as I heard the screams of my wife, trapped with countless others beneath the fallen beams, burned alive while I stood powerless on the walk below."

It wasn't a grin. It was bared teeth. It was a snarl, a grimace, the face of a man in pain.

It was a curious feeling, to be torn so evenly between pity and terror. There was no doubt the Southron meant what he said, and would explore every cruel facet of that threat very thoroughly before the end.

"You woke the dragon," hissed the oily voice, practically gleeful, "and now you can pay the price, can't you?" Thorin glanced at the oily-voiced man and twitched in surprise. The heavy brow and large nose, greasy hair - the Lake Master's advisor, the one who'd discovered them in Laketown. Thorin couldn't remember his name, but he recalled the man bore a wicked grudge against Bard for one reason or another.

But this alliance made no sense. Why would a man of Laketown, even one as slimy as this, ally himself with a grieving Southron merchant?

"I asked you a question, Dwarf," hissed the oily man.

"Leave the others out of this. They've done no wrong." Thorin's response was automatic, and he regretted it almost immediately as a blow came seemingly from nowhere, slamming into his temple. The dwarf fell hard, stars exploding behind his eyelids, his stomach doing its level best to turn inside out.

"You will answer the questions I ask, Dwarf."

"Do whatever you wish to me," Thorin gasped into the gravel floor, "but let my companions go." A hard kick to his midsection rolled him over, and Thorin held his breath, willing himself not to retch. The metallic taste in his mouth wasn't helping matters. That he did not speak again seemed to satisfy his captors. For now.

"So, Dwarf. The extended holiday in Laketown. What's the meaning of it?" the oily voice continued. "You've got your kingdom back. I can't imagine what you wanted with that... pathetic little town."

Thorin wasn't sure he could open his mouth without throwing up, but not giving an answer wasn't acceptable this time. A boot dug cruelly into his stomach and he rolled onto his side, blood and acid mixing on his tongue as the remains of his last pathetic meal made a second appearance.

"Why were you in Laketown?" the oily voice demanded, sounding somewhat pleased and somewhat disgusted.

"Looking for someone," Thorin lied, hoping the pain would mask any of his usual telltale signs of untruth.

"We will get little more from him today." The Southron seemed to have lost interest. At least, he sounded distracted. "Let him listen to his companions and know their blood is on his hands."

"That should loosen his tongue," the smug Lakeman agreed. "Put him in the cell next to the others, and make his little mouse squeak."

Thorin was jerked to his feet and half-dragged back out the door, and passed out briefly from the sudden elevation change. He remembered little of the dark passage leading to the cells. Consciousness came and went, horror in oblivion, shock and pain in awareness.

Next he knew, he'd been flung into a cell, the door whimpering shut behind him.

"Billa," he hissed through his teeth, struggling to get up, voice tight with pain. He couldn't tell at the moment if she was here or not, but he didn't care. "Run... you have to run. I know you can escape, so get out of here _now._ I beg you."

There was pure, haunted desperation in his eyes as he searched the darkness about him, his vision still blurry, tinged with red.

His answer was the squeal of a second set of hinges, and the scuffling sound of a small, struggling body being pulled out into the corridor.

"Thorin? Thorin!" Billa's voice broke and the rustling scrape of her struggles was rewarded with a pained grunt from her captor. A moment later, her small body hit Thorin's door, and he could see her face dimly through the bars. It was pale, a smear of blood black against her cheek. "Thorin, please, don't let them do this - it's not your fault. It's not your fault!" One thick arm appeared, wrapping about her like a python and Billa was hoisted into the air, hairy feet kicking madly. "Get your hands offa me!"

Thorin flung himself against the door, half-mad with helpless horror. "Let her go! Don't touch her!"

The Southron, faintly visible in the darkness beyond the cell, unsheathed his knife with a ringing scrape. Though Billa kicked and struggled, he seemed to have little trouble holding her against him with one arm across her chest, the knife in the other hand.

"Silence, Mountain King. Silence... you will only make it worse for her." The man's blade gleamed in the sudden light of a torch, borne by another man, a Southron like his leader, hair hanging in thick dreadlocks. This man also carried a long, curved knife. Billa struggled even harder, making feral snarling sounds in the back of her throat. She sounded like a creature possessed, fighting with every ounce of strength she had. The flickering, smoky light cast frightening color over the scene. Blue in the velvet of her coat, red in the blood smeared across her face, purple in the bruise around one swollen eye. Thorin had eyes only for the hobbit, his ears ringing with her voice.

"Thorin, if you blame yourself for this, so help me, I won't speak to you for a month! Just you - oi! Watch where you're putting those-" The halfling's words turned abruptly into a shriek of startled pain, and a ragged tear in the velvet sleeve turned purple, then black with fresh blood. The Southron's teeth flashed white in his dark face as he backed away, down the corridor and out of sight, the light extinguished as it followed them around the corner. The distance, however, wasn't enough to muffle Billa's cries of protest and pain. She might have been putting on a brave front, but Thorin knew with utter certainty that her blood was being spilled, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He sank to his knees, gripping the bars with strength enough to have crushed bone. All too futile. The bars of the door were surprisingly solid, almost certainly salvaged from Laketown's wreckage.

If the others heard his desperate sobs, his gasps of vicarious pain, they pretended not to, heads lowered in stony silence. All except Dwalin who, like a madman, was throwing himself repeatedly against the door of his cell.

"I'll kill 'im! I'll kill 'im!" His roars echoed throughout the chamber, mercifully muffling some of the halfling's cries.

Minutes crawled by, an interminable eon in the darkness as Billa's cries faded to quiet whimpers. At length, the Southron returned Billa to her cell, and there, alone, she started to weep. It was a quiet sound, but in the near silence of the dungeon, where even Dwalin had stopped fighting, the sound was plain.

Dwalin waited until the Southron had had his fill of Thorin's despondency before flicking his bonds away. Dori gave him a strange look, seeming startled that the brawny dwarf had managed to free himself with such apparent ease. Thorin leaned against the bars, still shuddering, but within a few moments, he'd mastered himself enough to speak.

"Help her. Please… help her." He sounded broken, his voice a dull rasp. He needed to comfort her, needed to hold her, needed to have her in his arms. Her soft weeping was too much for him to bear.

Balin seemed to understand Dwalin had gotten himself loose. "Free me, Brother. I may not be much for healing, but I know a little."

There was a good deal of shuffling and muttering as they helped one another with their bonds. Most had already rid themselves of their blindfolds, but free hands were still restrained by the bars that separated them, and even in parallel cells, they could only reach a very limited stretch of the neighboring door's bars.

"Miss Baggins? Can you reach the bars? I may be able to help you." Balin's gentle voice coaxed a broken laugh from the crying halfling.

"Unless you have keys, I don't think there's a chance." She sniffed loudly, and Thorin could imagine her wiping her nose on her sleeve, a habit she despised and the reason she valued handkerchiefs so highly.

"Billa, I can't-" Thorin wasn't even sure what he was going to say, but his burglar seemed to have anticipated his meaning.

"Thorin, if you start apologizing now, I'll never forgive you." Her tone was harsh, almost hysterical. "I told you already, this isn't your fault."

"Five cells," grunted Dwalin, thankfully pretending not to hear their exchange. "Balin an' I in one, Bofur an' Dori in another, Glóin in the third, and the burglar an' ye in solitary. Unevenly spaced, but well-constructed. Bof?"

"Aye, but I need some help wit' me hands. Still tied up."

Thorin straightened slightly, disbelief and hope mingling in his expression, not that the others could see it. "You've a plan?"

"Ye t'ink I leave home wit'out one?" The jolly miner seemed to have recovered some of his good humor, though it sounded forced.

If one of them had lockpicks - but they couldn't afford to say so aloud.

"We will have but one chance," Thorin murmured, bracing himself against the stone wall. "If they catch us, we'll not escape again, I warrant." His head was spinning, the blinding pain from earlier now fading to a nauseatingly regular throbbing.

"They'll take extra precautions tonight," Balin added quietly. "They're not so foolhardy as to place their faith in untested cells. And we don't know the way out, either. No good trying to outwit a snake in its own tunnels."

Thorin sighed, leaning against the wall nearest Billa's cell. "Are you badly hurt?"

"I've had worse," was her reply, but he could hear the pain in the way she spoke, the way she moved. The halfling's dim outline was against the bars of her door, across the corridor from him and a little to the left, nearest the tunnel the Southron and his men had brought them down earlier. The others were on his right, but their movements were but a pale shadow to him. Thorin's gaze devoured Billa's figure hungrily. Her curly mop of hair, her sloping shoulders, the soft curve of her hips. It occurred to him that Hobbits probably couldn't see as well in the dark as Dwarves. She might not be able to see anything at all.

"Tell me the truth, Billa. How badly are you hurt?"

This time, she hesitated before answering. "Not all my hurts are fresh, love. Erebor's dungeons aren't as kind as Thranduil's."

"Dís is..." Billa hesitated, and in that beat of silence, a hundred gruesome possibilities sprang into existence in Thorin's mind. His sister could be dead, injured, imprisoned, forced to marry against her will.

"She's wooing Dain."

These words, so out of place in this dark place, stopped him short. Thorin shook his head. He must have misheard.

"She's what?"

He could almost hear the halfling's blush in her reply. "She's in Erebor, getting friendly with Dain. She sent a letter with me when she got me out, but I lost it when the Men took my things."

Thorin contemplated these words a moment, shaking his head again. "To what purpose? Why would she-?"

"Perhaps the princess..." Balin began hesitantly. "Perhaps she hopes to undermine him somehow, through gaining his favor. She can't actually... it's not possible she truly has any affection for Dain."

"Would that I could say that with certainty," Thorin murmured, closing his eyes as though to gather strength. He remembered all too well the conversation he'd overheard, his sister's obscure replies when he'd questioned her. Was it possible Dís could be simultaneously loyal to her brother and genuinely attracted to the one who'd betrayed him? He was sickened by the thought.

Thorin's reflection on the matter was interrupted, and happily so, by a soft cry of triumph from one of the others. Dori was smiling through the bars at him and pointing significantly to the hinge at the top of his door. The doors, set directly into the stone, had been masterfully and solidly worked in, but not perfectly. The stone around that hinge was cracked, the cement flaking a little at the edges. To Thorin, the flaws were obvious, even at a distance and in near-total darkness, but to a Man, it might not be so. Thorin nodded, then wished he hadn't, as his head gave a terrific throb. His brain was trying to implode, and nearly succeeding.

"Thorin." Dwalin's voice dragged his attention back to the world outside his head, which seemed to hurt just as much, but dimly. "Will you be able to sleep?"

Sleep? _Sleep?_ After all that had happened? With Billa's pained weeping still ringing in his ears, the sight of her blood seared into his mind.

"Don't trouble about me," he said after a lengthy pause. No, it wasn't going to be a pleasant night, but at the very least, they were all together. That was more comfort than he'd had in many a day. "Take what rest you can, all of you. I do not know whether you will have another opportunity as good as this one."

Still clutching the bars as though they were a lifeline, he stared out at the faint outline of the halfling, standing within his limited sight. Whatever hurts she bore, he could not see, and felt guilt at his own thankfulness for that fact.

_Forgive me, Billa. I've brought this upon us all._

The night was a long one. Snores from his companions were sporadic at best, and Thorin never heard Dwalin's bass rumble. Billa eventually sat, and even lay down, but if she slept, he couldn't tell. At very least, she shifted often, and took cold at some point in the wee hours, shivering hard. The former king could only watch and think helplessly of the things he couldn't do to ease her discomfort.

Thorin's internal clock told him it was just after dawn when torchlight flickered at the turn in the corridor. Its warm orange light was no comfort when the man that accompanied it scowled through the bars and growled a curse. He unlocked a door and knocked Bofur senseless before dragging Dori out into the open. Thorin thought it strange, even hopeful, when the man released the dwarf to lock the door again. Dori bolted, but no sooner had he gotten around the corner than he grunted in pain.

The thud of heavy blows rebounded down the hall, and Dori's breathing became harsh, his boots scuffing as he stumbled. His opponents were clearly many.

"Beg, Mountain king, and we may spare him." The Southron's voice came to him, though he wasn't in sight.

Thorin's mind was in chaos. Why had they chosen Dori? Did they know something he didn't? The torchlight still reflected off the far wall, casting a dull reddish light over the dungeon. The Company were all looking at him, eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness. Dori had no brother to defend him, no sister here to weep for him.

"Let him go. He's done nothing to you." Thorin's voice was hoarse, heavy with guilt and responsibility. Dori wouldn't be in this position if he hadn't pledged his service to a would-be king on a mad quest.

"Not good enough, Your Majesty." The Southron sounded nearly pleased, in a grim sort of way. Out of sight, Dori gasped, then grunted. A sickening crack made the dwarf grunt again, this time suppressing a cry of pain. Thorin felt icy horror wash through him.

"Stop! Leave him alone! He's done nothing. Let me take his place!"

The Southron chuckled, his voice seeming exceptionally smooth after Thorin's outburst.

"Better, but you are still not desperate enough. This one is not dear to you maybe."

"All in my Company are valued. I would give my life for each and every one." Thorin knew in his heart this was true. Whether it would make a difference or not remained to be seen.

Dori gasped quietly as he was shoved back into view, protecting his right hand with his left. The pleading look that briefly landed upon Thorin tore at his heart. If he could only reason with this Southron, convince him they were not so vile and callous as he seemed to think. This torment was not without cause, after all, not the work of someone who enjoyed it for its own sake. The Southron genuinely believed this was just retribution.

Dori was cast back into his cell, and released a whimper when he hit the floor, unable to catch himself with his good hand alone.

"Would you _really_ die for these others, Mountain King?" The Southron - flanked by two other hooded men - seemed amused by the thought. "Easy words. Among my people, kings are of the gods' blood; their subjects to them like ants are to men. You will forgive me if I do not believe you."

He paced down the hall a ways, then pointed into the next cell. "The old one. Bring him to me."

Balin. Thorin felt a sudden surge of horror at the thought of what this vengeful creature might do to the grandfatherly dwarf.

"I'd like to see ye try." The gravelly voice of a dependable, hulking warrior temporarily eased Thorin's fears. Dwalin wouldn't let these men touch his brother. Not without making them pay dearly for it. The Southron's men hung back, giving off an air of anxiety. Dwalin was nearly the height of a Man and much broader - not a force to be trifled with.

"You didn't wake Smaug, Balin."

Thorin turned toward the speaker, horror etched on his already stricken face. Billa was standing at the bars, fixing the old dwarf across the way with an adamant look. "None of these dwarves did. The blame is mine. _I_ woke Smaug. I'm responsible for what he did to Laketown, to you."

The Southron seemed a little caught off guard. He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "Even if I believed that you, a little runt of a female, had been allowed by your mate to go near the dragon's lair alone... even if I did, it was not your idea. You were following the orders of your king, and he is the one upon whose head the burden falls."

Thorin relaxed a little, though his heart still raced within him, fearing for what was to come. If he was to dissuade the man from hurting his old friend, it was now or never. "You do not believe I value these 'subjects' of mine, that I'd give my life for any of them. Let me prove you wrong. Do to me whatever you might have done to these others. If I flinch from it, or beg you to stop, you will know I have lied. If not... then perhaps you will discover the truth of my words."

"I believe you would die for your mate," the Southron admitted. "That is not uncommon in any race. But these other dwarves. What are they to you?"

Thorin looked into the faces he could see. Billa. Dori. Bofur. Glóin. There was no simple answer, but the words of Bard, explaining what a king was to his son came back to him.

"They swore their service to me. I am responsible for them. For their care. Their wellbeing. Their actions. What they did, they did for me, and all fault... should fall to me." He could see Billa was scowling, and knew what she would say. Thorin's resolution only firmed with that knowledge.

"Even when they defied me, they did so in my interest. Let me take what is mine, and should they also need to share in this punishment, let that also fall on me. If I prove false, then no harm is done that wouldn't have come to me anyway."

"Damnit, Thorin!" Billa was glaring at him, fists clenched. "I want to protect you!"

Thorin tried not to be angry with her. Didn't she know it would hurt him more to see her hurt for his sake than to _die_ for hers? He met her gaze with one equally fierce, one she doubtless understood meant he was going to be just as obstinate as she, and far beyond.

"Billa, keep out of this. I do what I must."

"But _Thorin-_ "

"Miss Baggins." It was Balin's voice again, still calm and quiet, and Thorin wasn't sure whether to bless the old dwarf or brace himself for more arguments. "Thorin will do as he feels necessary, regardless of our desires. We can only hope to comfort him afterward." _Which you won't be able to do if you're bleeding and in pain._  The unspoken words were plain to Thorin, and he could see by the look of devastation on Billa's face that she understood just as well as he did. She shook her head, her protests now silent. Thorin could imagine them all too well. They were, after all, his own.

_I don't want to see you suffer. I don't want to hear your pain. It's easier to bear it myself. Don't make me listen to your punishment. I'll break._

The Southron seemed almost bemused by these Dwarves (and small hairy female), all but begging for the chance to bear the punishment they feared. Perhaps they _were_ as loyal as they claimed. Or maybe they were all mad.

"Bring the old one to me." The Southron's voice was quiet, his brow still furrowed with what might have been confusion, or intrigue. "And bring the little king as well. We shall see if his words are truth or not."

Thorin exchanged a final glance with Billa before his cell was opened and he was led out. He made no resistance as he and Balin were marched around the corner. This was a test, after all, and it would not do to fail it when it might be their only chance. Why the punishment would be done out of the view of the others was unclear, but Thorin supposed it might be to increase the helpless terror the others felt at not knowing just what was being done.

A glance over his shoulder revealed that Balin was trembling slightly, fear in his old eyes. Whether it was for himself or for his friend, he didn't know.

"Hold the old one there so he may see what he himself would have taken." The Southron took Thorin's arm, leaving the other men to restrain Balin. "If his king resists but once, the old one shall have what is due him."

The Southron pulled a knife from his belt, his gaze dark, searching. Thorin had the feeling that the man was testing him in many more ways than the obvious. The knife, rather than cutting into his flesh as he expected, scraped over his jaw. It was a moment before the dwarf realized that his beard was being shaved. It took a great deal of restraint to keep still. Did this man know the insult he was giving? Probably. After his beard was gone (an imperfect shave at best, but Thorin wasn't about to complain about that) the man's knife moved upward to his temple.

"Not his braids," murmured Balin, his face betraying the distaste this idea inspired in him.

The Southron said nothing, but cut the braids one at a time from Thorin's head. Still, the dwarf said nothing. Stone-faced, still as the Mountain from which he hailed, Thorin refused to give in.

The knife began to trace a pattern against the side of Thorin's neck, a tickle at first, then a searing pain. The pattern was one he didn't recognize. He didn't like it, whatever it was.

"We mark all our prisoners so," the Southron said softly, "and all the world knows that our vengeance is not swift."

The blade made a particularly deep cut, and Thorin's eyes began to water a little. The beard would grow back, his braids could be remade with different strands. A scar on his neck, though, would be not so easily forgotten.

Still, he remained silent and unmoving, Balin's distress palpable at his back. The old dwarf was clearly having a hard time remaining as stoic as his friend.

Finally, the last stroke of the knife heralded the completion of the mark, and the Southron admired it, a certain triumph in his face. Then, roughly, he turned Thorin so Balin could have a better look at his king's neck. "Tell him, old one. Tell him what I have carved into his flesh instead of yours."

Thorin watched what little color remained in his friend's face drain out of it. Whatever the mark was, he was willing to bet that Balin recognized it.

"I've seen it before. Jagged lines, like the spokes of a wheel. I..." He paused and swallowed heavily, as though fighting the urge to be sick. "I saw it branded on a former slave from Far Harad."

Thorin felt a mixture of rage and astonishment. He'd been marked as a _slave,_ his beard shorn, his braids and his beads stripped from him. Was there a further humiliation that could be heaped on him, shame like burning coals upon his head? An instant later, he wished he'd not thought it.

"A king's strength is not his own. If you can take punishment, you should be equally capable of giving it, should you not?"

Thorin's stoicism snapped, and he turned on the Southron with a look verging on betrayal. "That was not the agreement. You said his punishment would fall on _me._ "

Balin spoke up quickly, the tiniest bit of a quaver in his voice. "Do as he says. Please, Thorin. I understand."

"Balin, I..." Thorin's composure broke, and he began to shake. An unbearable concept, this. He shook his head. "I cannot. I _will not_ do this."

"You _must,_ old friend. For all our sakes."

The Southron smirked, dark eyes taking in the exchange with equal parts relish and curiosity. "Well, Mountain King. What is your answer?"

A hatred like forge-fire burned in his breast at the thought of what this wicked man wanted him to do. But Balin's pleading gaze wouldn't let him forget that this trial wouldn't simply end, should he choose not to do as the Southron said. Thorin realized his jaw was aching from being clenched, and he forced it to relax as he answered.

"I will do as you say."

There was something in the man's smile, in his eyes, that betrayed his pleasure - at Thorin's anger? At his suffering? At his helplessness? He pressed the short, curved knife into the dwarf's hand, the blade still stained with Thorin's own blood.

"Remove his beard," the Southron ordered softly, "and if you have a mark, he shall bear it as you do mine." Thorin shot him a glance, hoping for one ludicrous moment that the man was joking. The Southron's smile only widened slightly. "If you do not, I will."

For more than half a moment, Thorin seriously considered slashing the Southron's throat. But a casual glance at the ten or so men visible down the length of the tunnel - and these were just the ones in sight - all armed, and at attention, put a reality check on that fancy. He'd only ensure all their deaths, and could he bear that on his conscience for the short-lived pleasure of ending this Southron's life?

The man seemed to read Thorin's thoughts, his satisfied look not the least bit troubled. "Go on, dwarf king. Kill me. When you've been restrained, these men will see that you are all repaid in kind, your deaths slow."

Thorin gritted his teeth, turning away. The knife shook in his hand, his breaths shallow and shuddering.

"Forgive me, old friend." He took off most of Balin's white beard in eight strokes, and the thick hair drifted to the floor over the next few seconds, sad and forlorn as snow settling on a grave. Balin kept his eyes closed, his face willfully composed. Thorin forced himself to breathe, taking his time with the additional trimming. He'd never seen Balin like this before. He looked so bare. So _wrong,_ his chin paler than the rest of his face, where it hadn't seen the sun since he was a dwarrow.

"Enough." The Southron's order made Thorin jump a little, and the knife shook more than ever. "Now make your mark."

Thorin took several deep breaths, willing his hand to be steady. Shaky cuts would only make the pain worse for Balin. As he pulled the neck of the old dwarf's tunic open, he intentionally targeted a place the fabric usually covered. If he had to bear a scar, then it could at least be where others wouldn't see it.

"No," said the Southron, clearly enjoying himself too much. "On the neck. As is yours."

Thorin's heart thundered in his ears. Why now? Why here? Why Balin?

 _At least it's not Fili._ The image of Fili's battered face flashed through his mind. Motionless. Hardly breathing. Ori and Kili kneeling over him, Billa screaming for him to stop. Thorin closed his eyes.

"Make your mark," whispered the Southron. "I'll not tell you again."

The first cut was shaky, the line wavering like a drunken man as blood spilled freely over his friend's neck. Four cuts was all it took, for the base of the mark, then a fifth to make it his personal sign. Balin, to his credit, didn't so much as twitch. But he had stopped breathing at the second cut, eyes closed, jaw set.

Thorin lowered the knife, his friend's blood slicking off the blade. This was shame. This was shame he'd never known.

With a ragged sigh, he turned toward the Southron, unable to look up into the man's eyes. Waiting for instruction. Waiting for the next torment to begin.

"Good. Very good. You are learning." The Southron chuckled, extending his hand for the knife. Thorin handed it over without question, and his captor flicked a hand at the two men holding Balin. "Take him back now. Bring the king's mate. The little female."

"No!" Thorin felt as though his own heart were trying to break his ribs. "Leave her out of this!"

"Ah." The Southron was smiling again. "So you are willing to shed their blood, but not hers?" Thorin couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. This man was accusing him of _playing favorites._ More than that... he expected Thorin to hurt Billa with his own hands. The dwarf felt sick. It took only a matter of seconds. Balin was locked into his cell and Billa was brought. She didn't fight this time, but came with her head bowed.

"Today," said the Southron, "the knife. Tomorrow, I think... we shall heat the irons."

Thorin shook his head violently. "No. I do not see how this proves I am willing to suffer for my people. You cannot ask me to do this."

"I am not." The Southron smirked enigmatically, and held the knife out to Billa. "Go on, then. Take it. Else, he will be hurt double what I will ask of you."

Billa turned slightly green, and her hands shook so much that she actually dropped the knife. Her gaze searched his face desperately - seeking comfort? Thorin swallowed and nodded to her, trying to regain some of the stoicism Balin had inspired in him earlier.

"It's alright, Billa. I understand."

"This _isn't_ alright," she whispered, tears gathering swiftly in her hazel eyes. After the first couple fat drops fell from her eyes, though, they stopped, and Thorin remembered that they had neither eaten nor drunk in over a day. Perhaps longer, in Billa's case. Fear, it seemed, had dampened his appetite.

"Start... with his left hand," ordered the Southron, almost lazily. "Around the wrist, if you please. We've no shackles to leave their mark, so it will be done other ways."

Billa took Thorin's hand, swallowing repeatedly and looking closer than ever to being sick.

When she hesitated too long, the Southron held his hand out for the knife. "Give it to me, then. I'll not be gentle."

Billa shook her head. "No. No, I'll do it. I'll do it. Just- just give me a- jus..." She seemed to be trying to talk herself into it, and failing. The Southron made a feint for the knife, and Billa jerked it away. "No! I said I'll do it."

The Southron withdrew, grinning.

Billa exhaled shakily, holding Thorin's hand tightly. The dwarf rolled up his sleeve, exposing his wrist. He locked eyes with her, trying to give her strength. "It's alright, love. You know I've had much worse."

"Yes, but not from me." The hobbit's voice was tight, barely controlled.

"Go on."

It was almost funny, thought Thorin in a detached way, that it was Billa who reacted most to the cuts she inflicted on him. She shook, whimpered when the Southron ordered her to cut deeper. But she did so, the knife shaking in her unsteady hand, the cuts no straighter than the ones Thorin himself had inflicted on poor old Balin. It didn't seem to hurt as much, though, as it might have.

"It's alright, Billa."

"I hate this," she whispered. "I hate it. I don't want to hurt you."

"You've spared me pain, Billa. Think of that." Thorin's whispered words seemed small comfort for the poor halfling, and she looked away. The dwarf squeezed her hand, the warmth between them a faint reminder of better days.

Billa swiped at her face with the back of her knife-hand as though wiping away the tears she couldn't shed, leaving a red smear across the bridge of her nose. Then she made another cut, unintentionally deeper than the previous ones. Thorin winced as an eager trickle of blood snaked off onto the floor, and Billa gasped, the knife dropping once more from her hand.

"Pick it up," the Southron ordered. "Pick it up, or I will."

Billa whimpered and obeyed, scrabbling at the knife for an agonizing second or two before she straightened. Her hand and the hilt of the knife were both slick with sweat and blood.

"Now his right wrist."

Thorin could see the desperation in her eyes as her free hand groped for her pocket. He caught her hand and made her help him roll his sleeve up. _Not here. Please, not here. He can't see you disappear._

Billa raised the knife, swaying weakly, fingers shaking so she could hardly make anything of the knife. Her face went very pale, then her eyes rolled back in her head. Thorin caught her before she'd hit the floor. Her head lolled back, the knife falling from her senseless fingers. Thorin lowered her gently to a sitting position, turning to the Southron with an uncertain expression.

The man seemed oddly pleased, and moved forward to retrieve the knife. "Hold the female. When she wakes, she will see what her failure breeds."

Thorin was still holding Billa close to his body when she woke, though not, he told himself, because the Southron had ordered him to. He would have held her even had he not been ordered to do any such thing. She needed him. And he needed her. He hoped, however, that the darkness would be enough to stop her discovering his hurts. Knowing Billa, just thinking that had doomed the hope to an early death.

"Th-Thorin?" She shuddered as she regained consciousness, her voice faint and hoarse. Thirsty, as likely as not. Thorin gave her a gentle squeeze.

"I'm here, Billa." He felt her fingers fumble at his hands and grasp them shakily.

"I had... the most awful dream." The words were unsteady, and he wished they were true. If this were all a dream - but whose dream would it have been? His, or hers? Both, perhaps.

"It's alright now. I'm here." He lowered his head to press his nose into her hair, only to be reminded that his beard was gone. Her curls tickling his chin - it wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation, but a very distracting one. Her fingers slid over his hands to his wrists, and he tried not to wince as they brushed over the cuts there. The ones on his right wrist were much deeper, and still wept blood.

"Where is he? The man that did this?" She didn't sound surprised. What then, had she thought was a dream?

"Left. You were unconscious too long, and it bored him, I guess."

"I'm so sorry, Thorin..."

"Don't be. I would rather be cut by you a thousand times over than suffer to see him hurt you." The darkness was somehow more bearable when she was close. "He said... he said you could stay with me tonight, since we would be continuing tomorrow." It was his turn to shudder, and her hand brushed his cheek, comforting him in the only way she could.

"At least we have each other."

Thorin grunted his agreement, absently taking note of the silence from the other cells. He could only imagine that the others were listening. Did they take comfort, too, in this moment of peace? In the knowledge that they were still together?

"Thorin?"

"Hm."

"I should... there's something I need to tell you." She was trying to sit up in his lap, and he let her. Billa's voice dropped to a whisper that would be heard in the other cells, but not down the hall. "It's very important... the Big Folk can't know."

"Big Folk?"

"The Men."

Thorin peered at her through the darkness, mystified. A message from Dís, maybe? Or something about Dain she couldn't tell him before? "What is it?"

"Oin had a look at me... after Dís got me out of the dungeons."

Nope, he was completely lost. What did Oin have to do with anything?

"He said... well, there's a good reason I've been sleeping and eating so much."

Now Thorin felt a trickle of dread, though he still said nothing. He couldn't afford to, he thought, because if he opened his mouth, he might end up saying something abysmally stupid.

"Thorin... I'm pregnant." Her words seemed to hang in the air long after the sound had faded.

"Lass, I think you could have picked a better time to tell him." Balin's observation from the adjacent cell could barely be heard over the rush of blood in Thorin's ears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First; please permit me to indulge in a bit of groveling. *bows* Forgive me for not having posted a warning on this chapter when I first put it up. I understand I should have, and for the fact that I didn't, I have no one to blame but myself. 
> 
> Summary:  
> Thorin is confronted by Alfrid and a Southron merchant who lost his family in the Second Desolation. In anger, the Southron swears vengeance, and promises that Thorin will suffer as he suffered--helpless to save those he cares about, unable to escape the sounds of their torment.  
> Thorin demands to take the punishment of the Company on himself, pledges that he would rather die in their place than see them so tortured. The Southron decides to test his determination.  
> Through the course of the torture, Thorin's beard and braids are removed, and the mark of a Haradrihm's slave is put on him. In turn, he is forced to inflict similar hurts on his friend Balin.  
> At the end of the chapter, in a moment of quiet and rest, he and Billa are placed into the same cell. Billa tells him that she is carrying his child, and Thorin feels somewhat blindsided.


	10. Waiting; Fíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and Ori occupy themselves while waiting for Thorin and Co. to return to Laketown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki encouraged me to post this chapter early (so as to un-traumatize you all after chapter nine) but to be honest... I forgot. *shame* So instead, have an on-time chapter, and some FilOri fluff! :D

Fíli shook his head silently, his beads clinking together in the near silence as he stared out over the darkening flatlands beyond the Lake. "Nothing. I shouldn't have let them go. Not the way they did. Uncle was so..." He shrugged. "I don't think he was thinking clearly."

Ori looked up from her knitting. "I'm sure you would've done the same if I was out there on the heath by myself. People do strange things for love." She made no mention of his mad dash away from Erebor, though it was nonetheless implied. The sun was sinking low in the West, glowing on the cold water. A beautiful, peaceful day on the viewing deck, soured only by the knowledge that their friends and kin were almost certainly in danger... or possibly dead.

Fíli shrugged. "That they do. I just wish... I wish they hadn't left us here. What if they were captured by Dain? What if the light was a trap? It's been a _day_ now, and no sign of them. What do we do?"

The click of Ori's knitting needles strove to fill the silence for a moment, then she sighed. "All we can do is wait. If we leave to search for them, they might come back while we were gone, and think something terrible had happened to us." He turned to look at her, and there was a helpless look on her face, reddened from the cold. And he had to admit that she was right. For better or worse, they would need to stay, at least a while longer.

"Why don't we go inside for a bit? I could use some warming up." He offered her a hand, and thought to himself that if things went badly, then the two of them could join Kili and Tauriel in Rivendell until they figured out what to do next.

Ori nodded, pinning the scarf she'd been knitting to the ball of yarn with her needles.

The fire still had a few live coals, and Fíli nursed them into a cheery blaze. Neither of them had had much thought for eating, troubled as they'd been by the endless waiting, watching, and wondering of the day. The blond realized for the first time, that he was hungry.

As if she'd read his mind, Ori gestured toward the opposite end of the table. "Looks like Bard left something for us. A basket. Might be food."

"Or trouble." In light of everything that had happened, Fíli could be forgiven for being suspicious. Upon closer inspection, though, the wine and smoked fish seemed fairly innocuous, and the blond reminded himself that if someone in Laketown had meant to kill them, they probably wouldn't have bothered with poison.

They ate quietly together, sitting near the fire. After the first couple bites, Fíli found himself unable to focus on his food. He couldn't appreciate the taste of it, even, glancing repeatedly at the dark, narrow windows.

"Maybe we should go find them."

Fíli's muttered words reached Ori's ears in spite of his best wishes. She fixed him with a look that was half exasperated, half frightened.

"You know why we can't, Fee. Give them a few more days, at least. Please." It was truly remarkable, how much she opened up when it was just the two of them. Fíli sighed.

"I know. I know. It's just-"

"Waiting is hard," Ori finished for him, setting her dinner aside and reaching up to rub his shoulders. "It's not the way of the line of Durin to sit and do nothing." Her words were warm against his ear, and honestly surprised him. Not because he didn't know that, but... because it helped. It wasn't just that he was impetuous, restless and young. It was in his blood.

Against his better judgment, he found himself starting to relax. Ori's fingers, though not as strong as his brother's, were skilled at finding just the right spot....

Fíli groaned softly, and he heard her chuckle. "You think this is funny?"

"Yes." Ori's tone, playful and light, caught him off-guard. How could she be in so good a mood? "You look like you're melting."

Fíli tried to puff himself up and look indignant, but it was no use. Her good humor was catching. With a faint huff of laughter, he leaned back into her hands and shook his head.

"You're right, you know."

"That you're melting?" She nudged him, and he could hear the smile in her voice. Mahal bless her - what had he done to deserve such a gem?

"No. Well, maybe a little, but that's your fault." He sighed, shaking his head. "No, I mean... about staying here. We have to, and fretting won't make any difference."

"It's hard not to worry." Ori's hands had stopped now, and he felt her hair tickling his ear as she pressed her cheek to his shoulder. "I worry about them, too. Is it... is it terribly selfish of me, if I want to take advantage of this? I mean, we haven't actually been alone since..."

"Before my mother arrived." Fíli flushed slightly. He knew why, now. The letter had been burned, but the words remained with him. _See that Fíli and Ori are married, and quickly. I'll not have any more grandchildren born out of wedlock._

From a cultural stand, Dís' attitude was unusual. Dwarves didn't often mind whether the child or the wedding came first, children being so rare. For the line of Durin, though... the line of succession had to be kept as clear as possible. It was because of mistakes like that, like Kíli's, that the Dwarves were so close to dying out. Wars of succession, fights over territory, feuds and grudges, debts, vows, and a deep thirst for just vengeance; none of it had helped the Dwarves rebuild their population. And with Fíli the only son of Durin to bond with a dwarrowdam, and Thorin unlikely to succeed in siring heirs with Billa (she was, after all, too small to bear healthy offspring) Fíli's children would be the rightful heirs to the throne of Erebor, no matter what Dain said.

"You're far away," murmured Ori, and he twitched when he realized she was watching him.

"I'm sorry. I just... Mam was afraid we might... you know... do what Kíli and Tauriel did. She wants us married quickly. Not sure how Uncle's going to pull that off, though." He tried not to let on how utterly embarrassing the topic was. Ori flushed red, but the way her eyes crinkled told him she was hiding a smile. She wasn't appalled by the idea of marrying him, at least.

"I doubt we'll have a 'proper' ceremony any time soon. Not until everything calms down at least, wherever we end up settling. Do you..." Ori hesitated, still blushing. "Do you know the vows? Marriage vows, I mean."

Fíli chuckled self-consciously and half-turned, setting his plate down so he could put his arms around her. "I may have done a bit of research on the subject in Erebor," he admitted sheepishly. "So... yes, I do."

Ori melted into his embrace with a soft giggle. The wine and food were proving comfortably soporific for them both, it seemed. Fíli felt more relaxed than he had in days.

"You know them? You have them memorized?" Ori seemed a little surprised, but nonetheless pleased. "Because if you do... what's to stop us from saying them now? Even if we don't have any witnesses, it would still be something."

Fíli hesitated. "Well... I still have your mother's beads. I haven't made new beads for myself, though." He frowned, but seriously considered the possibility. He'd rather have done it with his uncle present, but what was to stop them from doing it twice, if that was the way things worked out? "We could. Is that what you want?"

Ori nodded, smiling easily, her blush turned to a radiant glow. "Love," she nuzzled his neck gently, voice sunk to a whisper, "I can't imagine life without you." Pulling away enough that she could see his face, she blinked a few times, seeming to consider her next words. "I would be so honored, Fíli, if... if you would be my husband."

The beads, he decided, could wait until they had witnesses. With gentle hands, Fíli pulled his beloved into a kneeling position in front of the hearth and, after stoking the fire to a hot blaze, joined her.

"Ori, daughter of Tirg, by the works of your hands and the words of your heart, you have proven yourself in my eyes. In war and in peace, in battle and in life, I swear now by the mighty hand of our Maker that I will be yours forevermore, until the Great Remaking of Arda, at the End. I will be the ax that slays your enemies, the anvil that steadies your iron, the hammer that molds your children." Fíli paused to take a breath, his eyes unfocused as he recalled the words Balin had shared with him. "I will treasure you as I treasure your works, and defend you as I defend my home. In all things, you will be my left hand, my better part. This moment until my last in this world, the strength of my ax, the works of my hands, the thoughts of my heart, are yours."

He paused again, then took her hands between his own and, one careful line at a time, had her repeat the companion vow of a dwarrowdam to her mate. Ori's face was bright as she spoke the oaths that would bind them together until they were parted by death.

"This moment until my last in this world, the strength of my body, the creations of my hands, the thoughts of my heart, are yours." Ori's voice seemed almost amplified by the close, warm space between them. It certainly touched Fíli's heart and filled his mind. With a solemnity befitting the moment, he leaned forward slightly, pressing his forehead to hers.

"We are One," he murmured, "and shall be until the earth reclaims us." He let the words settle, then kissed her nose gently. "Normally, we'd exchange beads now, but I thought... it could wait until Uncle and Dori were here. If you don't mind."

"Beads are for others' benefit. _We_ know what's passed between us." She returned his kiss, and then, with a happy sigh, rested her cheek against his shoulder. " 'Husband,' " she whispered. "I like the sound of that."

Fíli bit his lip, trying not to grin as he nuzzled her soft, chestnut hair. "And what about 'wife?' Do you like that one, too? I do." On the one hand, he felt a little guilty about taking so much pleasure in this time with her, the others being absent and possibly in danger. On the other hand, it was a relief - both to have the vows said and to have something else on his mind. Something that had nothing to do with their kin being in mortal peril.

Ori grinned, reaching up to stroke one of the thick braids behind Fíli's ear. "I can tell. The way you say it is so... tender. Just like I imagined you would, when the time came."

A bit of a pause, and a fresh rush of color trickled back into her cheeks. "Seeing as we're alone and all... I mean, _really_ alone... would it-? Would you...?" She sputtered awkwardly, her thoughts obviously jumbled by nervousness. "I mean, I've never had a wedding night before, obviously. I'm not sure how these things are supposed to go."

Fíli shivered and avoided her gaze. The conversation had been a very uncomfortable one, as Balin had felt it necessary to call Glóin in to help him explain, and Glóin had asked his brother for _his_ input.... All in all, the blond felt he'd probably gotten a lot more information than he'd actually needed. Secretly, he hoped his beard was thick enough now to hide the heat in his cheeks.

"It's not something I can explain," he admitted quietly, as though afraid someone would overhear. "But... if we have another cup or two, maybe I can show you."

He reached for his wine, realizing belatedly that the cup was already empty. Under his arm, Ori shifted slightly as she picked up the bottle Bard had provided for them. Any thoughts of poison and death threats was lost to his contemplation of the color of the wine, the freckles on Ori's nose, his bead in her hair. Before morning, he would replace it with a marriage bead. Not the whole set, but one, at least. She deserved it. And a selfish part of him wanted everyone to know that they were married. That she was his.

By the time they'd shared another three cupfuls between them, Fíli had decidedly loosened up a bit, his laughter free and frequent. If he was making a fool of himself, he didn't know, and no longer cared. And anyway, Ori didn't seem to mind, giggling at gaps in the conversation, and generally looking like she was having the time of her life.

"So one time Kee asked Uncle where dwarrows came from," Fíli said, trying to suppress a grin. "Thorin looked about ready to die on the spot. He got around it by sort of gesturing to his stomach and mumbling something about our mother and Kíli got this look on his face-" the blond paused to widen his eyes comically, letting his mouth fall open as though in shock, "and said 'Wait, so Mam _ate_ me?!'"

Ori laughed so hard that she half collapsed against Fíli's side, giggling helplessly and clutching her empty cup as though it might somehow keep her upright. Whether his story was actually that funny or not, Fíli didn't care. Seeing his One so merry was better than anything he could think of. Pushing Ori up, he stood, emptying his cup in half a gulp and setting it on the table.

"Come on, I wanna show you something."

She took his hand, still giggling, and followed him into his room, where he set her on the bed and pulled out his bag.

"Way back when, they had this tradition of exchanging gifts after the vows, and I... well, I made something for you." Fíli straightened in time to see Ori's smile falter.

"But I don't have anything for you."

"I've got it worked out," he assured her, his heart climbing into his throat. "You give me a kiss, and I'll give you your gift."

He had the package in hand now, and joined her on the bed, leaving his bag on the floor.

"A... kiss?" Ori was very red, seeming both nervous and excited. She edged closer until their legs were touching. "Just one?"

Fíli's mind spun like a top, her implications making the world seem even less steady than it had been a minute before. "Well, you could... more than one... if you wanted." The space between them was charged, magnetised, rapidly shrinking. His nose brushed hers and she hesitated, brown eyes wide.

The moment their lips made contact was like a minor explosion in Fíli's chest, the sensation hitting his mind like a pint of dorwinion on an empty stomach. He was barely aware of his fingers in her hair, his hand on her back, both pulling her closer. She smelled like warm, soft things. Like wool, dried by the fire. Like honey in the sun. Like the stones of a cooling forge.

He didn't realize until his lungs started to burn that he hadn't been breathing. Fíli pulled away, dizzy. Being alone with her was intoxicating. Was this what it had been like for Kíli? Something clicked softly, metallically, in his hand, and he looked with some bemusement at the thin package before remembering.

"I... made these for you."

Ori was no steadier than he as she unwrapped the soft velvet, revealing a set of knitting needles, engraved roundabout with a combination of the raven of Erebor and the symbols for strength, honor, and compassion.

"You said you lost the ones Nori made for you, so... I thought... you'd like these."

Ori's face lit up as she examined the intricate design on the needles. "These are _beautiful,_ Fee!"

"You like them?"

"Like them?!" Ori gently set the needles on the night table. "They're _perfect._ They're, well.... Come here!"

She pulled Fíli down into another kiss, even headier than the last, and continued on from there until they were both lying breathless in each other's arms. It seemed Ori thought the exchange somewhat unequal, and hoped to even the score.

Fíli panted, his hair mussed and sticking up all over. "I think we're even now."

"Not even close," Ori replied through a giggle, reaching to pull him into another kiss.

A faint creak announced an intruder, and a familiar face appeared briefly in the doorway before darting away with a startled grunt. The door had been partially ajar, so the visitor might have been pardoned for failing to knock.

Fíli flew up off the bed, mortified. "Bard, I- it's- it's not what.... I mean-"

"My apologies," came a contrite voice from out in the commons. "I knocked, but no one answered. I thought perhaps... I thought you'd all gone."

Fíli's cheeks burned. He had no idea what time it was, and knew he looked like he'd been... well, like he'd been doing exactly what he'd been doing. Spending quality time with his wife. He shot a look at Ori, but she had disappeared under a blanket. There was no way to properly gauge her reaction, though he could make an educated guess.

Shifting his weight uncertainly from one foot to the other, he cleared his throat. "Any, uh, any news of the others?"

"No. Not a sign." Bard remained out of sight. Fíli didn't blame him, and hastily tried to smooth down his wild hair.

"If they haven't returned by tomorrow morning..." He trailed off, mainly because he hadn't really decided just how to proceed in the event Thorin and the rest didn't turn up again. What _could_ they do? It was a difficult dilemma, indeed.

"We'll find them, or at least discover what's become of them." Bard seemed, almost, to have recovered from his shock, the surety returned to his voice. "You have my word."

Fíli sighed. To let Bard take over would have been a relief, but it didn't feel justified at all.

"It's a kind offer, but... I think this is my responsibility." The blond stepped around the door and into the commons, still running his fingers through his hair. "Thank you, all the same." The euphoria Ori had inspired in him was all but gone, replaced with a grim sort of worry. Things would turn out alright. They would have to.

The man looked at him seriously, and Fíli felt as though there was something new between them. Whether it was good or bad wasn't immediately clear. Maybe Bard thought him indecent for what he and Ori had done. Or maybe it was more to do with knowing what the others might be going through, wherever they were.

"If there's anything I can do...." Bard didn't need to finish his offer.

"You've done more than enough."

Bard took his leave, having assured himself that all was as well as it could be. No mention of Ori was made as the man departed. A glance at the windows told Fíli it was past dawn, and he felt silly for not keeping track of the time. Slipping back into the bedroom, the blond closed the door and lifted the blanket to check on his wife.

"Tired, love?"

"Maybe a bit." Ori smiled sheepishly up at him. "What time is it?" A pause, and she blushed. "Is he...?"

"Bard's gone. And it's time for you to sleep. I'll keep watch for a while."

The female turned over on her pillow, nodding lightly. "Make sure to wake me in an hour or two," she urged softly, fighting a yawn. "I want to do my fair share. Husband."

"Will do... wife." Now they were both grinning, though Ori looked like she was already a little more than half asleep. A thought seemed to rouse her, though, and she opened her eyes, a touch concerned.

"Be careful, Fee. It's getting late, and I don't know if the man who's been leaving notes might..."

Fíli waved a hand dismissively. "Nah. Don't worry about it. I don't think he was overly interested in _us_. The notes stopped after Uncle left, remember?"

Perhaps he wasn't as unworried as he pretended to be, but he had noticed the lack of notes and realized (with a feeling of chagrin) that the notes that had scared him the most had been left in areas where the Company gathered. Ori sat near those places, but so did others, and he had just been paranoid. Maybe he would train Ori, like he'd trained Billa. It would be good if she could defend herself. She could, argued a stubborn part of his brain. Just because she wasn't a warrior didn't mean she couldn't fight. She had, after all, survived against trolls, orcs and spiders.

Fíli smoothed her hair back from her face and smiled, forcing himself to focus. "Sleep, Ori. I'll wake you soon." She thought it was getting late. The blond swallowed a smile and made his way up to the viewing deck. It was still very early, but he wasn't going to complain. He had a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** the following message is almost entirely self-serving.
> 
> I'm looking for a willing test audience for short original pieces by me (Juno), particularly flash-fiction. If you can pledge at least one email-type response to a flash fiction or short story with constructive feedback, please shoot me an email at c.inkypaws [at] gmail [dot] com! I look forward to hearing from you.


	11. Not Broken; Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Co. continue to deal with captivity at the hands of the Southron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** The following chapter contains scenes of mild torture and acute distress. 
> 
> We haven't forgotten the rather violent reactions to the previous "torture" chapter, and we wanted to give you all fair warning. The following chapter shows multiple characters being branded. If this makes you uncomfortable, a summary of the chapter will be available at the end, and the actual "torture" scene will clearly marked, so you can skip it as desired.
> 
> The ending to this chapter, however, is quite fluffy, and well worth the read. :) 
> 
> Also, I (Juno) would like to extend my most sincere apologies. We didn't post a new chapter on the first, because I was out of state, and didn't have access to a computer where I could edit this chapter properly. *shame* It honestly didn't occur to me to warn anyone because I hadn't thought it would delay the posting of the chapter. But it did. And it's my fault. *bows at your feet* Forgive me. Tomorrow will be posted another chapter, because tomorrow is the fifteenth! It might be a little later in the day than usual, because I'm going in for the first day of work. :) Wish me luck!

Billa. _Pregnant._ The words were taking a while to sink in. Whatever Thorin thought he might say died on his lips, and he shook his head wordlessly. He had no idea how to feel.

"Lass, this changes everything." Balin's voice rose again from the stillness, voicing what was clearly on everyone's minds.

Thorin remained lost and bewildered, his head spinning with all the implications of this news. The mother of his child. He'd have thought it impossible, were it not for all that had happened lately with Kíli and his elven bride. At the back of his mind, though, were whisperings he’d caught from his own court on such occasions as they dared to gossip about his halfling mate, believing him elsewhere or out of hearing range. She was too small, too delicate, too weak. Carrying a viable child to term would be unlikely, and surely the death of her. How much credence he should place in the gossip of servants, Thorin wasn’t sure.

"The child is of Durin's blood, Billa." Balin spoke again, pulling him from his thoughts. There was a  certain air of reverence in his tone now. "It is our duty to-"

"Quiet." Thorin cut him off with a harsh whisper. “If the Southron hears of this, I’ve no doubt he will ensure the child dies as his own did. No one is to breathe a word of this until all danger is past. We cannot take any chances.”

Plans. Preparations. Those were easier. The rest of the processing would have to come later. To be given such news, _here_ of all places... he simply didn't have the mind for it right now.

"Yes, well, I didn't tell _him,_ did I?" Billa's voice made him jump, not because he hadn't expected her to speak, but because she sounded so... normal. Thorin licked dry lips and forced his overtaxed brain to focus.

"Bofur?"

"Eh?"

"You have them?"

"Right enough, I do."

"Glóin?"

"Aye."

"In your boots?"

Pause. "Oh, aye. That I do, laddy."

"Dwalin?"

The warrior's answer was a grunt, and it occurred to Thorin that his old friend might very well be unhappy with this newest development. Not that he blamed him. The last thing they all needed was yet another vulnerability.

"Under your knuckles?"

"Not anymore."

"What?" Thorin scowled. "Explain." This could throw off the whole plan. Bofur had lockpicks. Glóin had a small knife or two hidden on his person, though not in his boots, more than likely. Dwalin had, at some point, had a mithril sliver hidden under one of the heavy knuckledusters he wore. Having as many weapons as possible was important.

"Loaned it ta Nori. Never got it back."

"You... _loaned_ it to him?" Thorin was skeptical. From what he'd seen of the way the two dwarves had interacted, Dwalin distrusted the thief, and Nori had enjoyed getting on the hulking warrior's nerves.

"A moment o'... bad judgment."

"So what's the plan, then?" Glóin asked, lowering his voice considerably.

Thorin held Billa in his lap, his arms encircling her as though he were protecting her. In a way, maybe he was. "We wait until the opportune moment. We will have but one chance, and I don't aim to waste it."

"But they have the caves so heavily guarded," Balin pointed out. "How are we supposed to get past the men, and after that, how are we supposed to get out? We don't know the way."

"We'll need help, that's for sure." Bofur's tone was sober. "Maybe we can talk to a couple of 'em. I mean, they jus' want te feel better about their losses. They're not evil."

Thorin personally thought that very unlikely. "Best not to, I think. For now, we bide our time."

They would all need patience. He toyed with the idea of making Billa put on her ring and escape in the chaos that followed her disappearance. She could do it, of that he had no doubt. But if she did, it would reduce the chances of the rest of them escaping very significantly. She could join Fíli and Ori in Laketown. Fíli would make sure she was safe. But he was also responsible for Bofur, Dori, and Glóin, who also had families waiting for them, and Balin and Dwalin, his two oldest and most trusted friends. He couldn't sacrifice their chances of freedom for the sake of his burglar and their child.

Thorin felt the thought like a punch to the gut. _Their child._ No. No time to think about that. Not now.

* * *

**((Warning: Torture scene begins here. Skip down to the next bold heading if you don't want to read about characters in pain and in positions of acute distress.))**

_We need to bide our time._

The decision had been easier to make in the night, when Billa was safe in his arms and his comrades were locked behind bars of iron. The decision had been easier to live with when there was nothing to threaten the wellbeing of his burglar. Now Thorin regretted not making her run at the first opportunity. He had no doubt he would feel this way a number of times before they had a chance to escape, but the decision had indeed been made, and he couldn't go back on it now. Not even as the hot iron touched his exposed back, and the smell of burning hair filled the cave.

They were in the chamber Alfrid and the Southron had occupied that first day, and both of those men were looking on now, one with a neutral expression and the other with a look of suppressed glee. Alfrid, he decided, was enjoying this all too much. At the other end of the branding iron (a beastly contraption that could only belong to the Southron) was Dwalin. For all the emotion he showed, the hulking warrior might have been set in stone, his face void of expression, his body rigid with tension. But as ordered, he held the iron to Thorin's flesh until the Southron gestured for him to put the contraption back into the fire. Dori, one hand tucked protectively against his chest and bound in strips of his tunic, held the unconscious Billa. She had been ordered to add more cuts to his neck, siblings to the decorations the Southron had etched into his skin the previous day, after she'd passed out the first time. She'd done well enough around the back of his neck, but when she reached the front and could see his face again, she'd started to shake in earnest. Her last cut, which trailed shakily down into his chest hair, had been made as she fell. If nothing else, Thorin was impressed by her determination. Poor thing, though. She oughtn't have been forced to go through this. _In her condition._ Thorin refused to think the phrase. Absolutely refused. Now was not the time, here was not the place, and there was nothing in the world that could make him disclose her secret to these twisted men. Their secret.

"Thorin?" Billa whimpered his name and the dwarf turned sharply to look at her. A smile flickered across the Southron's face, and he indicated Dori should help her to her feet. The fastidious dwarf looked nearly ill, but obeyed. Three grown Dwarves in one room, and they still didn't dare move against their captors. Why? Because the burglar was in a delicate way and there were at least a dozen guards outside the door. If there had been a chance, Thorin knew they would have followed him. They might have followed him anyway. He shook his head, dark locks swinging against his face. The hobbit was unsteady on her feet, but she stumbled forward, extending one shaking hand to Thorin. He caught it and glanced at the Southron.

_Haven't you done enough? Can't you see she can't take much more of this?_

He wouldn't say it. He wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of knowing any of them were nearing the end of their very frayed ropes. Billa leaned against him and Thorin hissed softly. The heat in his shoulder seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat. While Dwarf skin was thick and tough, resistant to burns, not even a Dwarf could handle hot iron without suffering the consequences. Billa must have heard the sound, because she drew away slightly, taking her weight from his hand.

"His hair next, I think," said the Southron, almost lazily. Dori made a sound of protest, and the man smiled. "Cut it off. All of it."

While Thorin felt this newest blow to his pride, the halfling beside him relaxed. As much as he hated to admit it, this reaction troubled him more than many other things she might have done. In fact, Billa took the knife from the Southron and even commented, in an almost jocular tone, "He needed a haircut anyway." She meant no disrespect. She probably didn't even know what a Dwarf's hair meant to him, but the comment wounded Thorin more deeply than he wanted to admit. He might never let her see how deeply, but the Southron seemed to know, and smirked as Billa told him to kneel so she could reach his hair properly.

"If you're waiting for me to grow so I can reach on my own, I'm sorry to disappoint. Come on, love, down to my level."

After a long moment's hesitation, Thorin did so, and closed his eyes. The little knife was as sharp as ever, and Billa was meticulous in her removal of each dark hair. He felt all but bald, but he could tell that she was leaving a uniform length, no more than an inch or two all around. It would grow back, he told himself. The braids had been just as much of a loss, if not more, because he'd also lost his beads. But the hobbit's almost cheerful manner seemed to make it all the worse. He could hear her humming softly, a tactic he'd noticed her using to distract herself during busy or stressful times. He wondered vaguely if it worked.

"Continue performing so well," the Southron said into the warm quiet of the room, "and I may consent to feed you. Rise, Dwarf." The fire snapped loudly, embers settling on the stone as Thorin stood. His head felt strangely light, and the absence of the dark locks was sorely felt as the air moved over his now-exposed neck. Really, after all else he'd suffered here, this new loss oughtn't have bothered him so much, but it did. Perhaps the fact that it bothered him was good. Perhaps that meant that the other injuries were light enough burdens that the loss of his hair out-weighed them.

"Take up the iron," the Southron instructed, and Thorin glanced at him, surprised. The bottom dropped out of his stomach when he confirmed that, yes, the order was for him. Thoughts of his hair were banished as he wrapped shaking fingers firmly about the stout iron. The twisted end glowed cherry-red, the metal bent into such a shape that it would leave a series of spiralling lines, like the spokes of a twisted wheel, on the surface to which it was touched.

"Expose the female's back."

Thorin's blood ran cold. "No, I won't-"

"You _won't?_ " The Southron lifted an eyebrow. "Would you rather I did, and to your comrades as well?" This wasn't fair. Not even slightly. Not even in a skewed sort of way. This was just plain malicious. Thorin glanced at the others, then at Billa, who had been seized, her coat and tunic both pulled upward, off her body. As the linen shirt underneath was removed, Thorin found his gaze drawn almost irresistibly to her body. He had never had cause to look at her, unclothed, from any angle, as he had always respected her privacy and she wasn't a naturally seductive creature (he couldn't honestly say she wasn't passionate). Now it was obvious, to his eyes at least, that her stout frame had much more weight about the middle than he'd thought, making her seem even lower to the ground than normal. Certainly her center of gravity would have shifted downward.

"Shall I perform the task instead?" The Southron's tone was almost delicate, and he chuckled when Thorin's grip on the hot iron tightened. Even the end of the handle was warm enough to make holding it uncomfortable.

"Let me take her mark as well."

"No."

"Please." The word tasted foul. Reduced to begging. Would his sister still respect him when she heard of this?

"No." The Southron's expression hardened. "You may protect the others but she--she is beyond your reach. You will not be able to spare her, any more than I could spare my wife. You will hear her screams and see her flesh burn."

The iron wavered in Thorin's hand. How could he do this? Even if Billa had remained no more to him than a burglar... even from the very beginning of the Quest, he had wanted to spare her. Protect her. She wasn't built to withstand the same amount of damage a Dwarf could take.

"It's alright, Thorin." Billa's voice was muffled, but he heard her. She didn't know what was coming. She couldn't. If she did, then she wouldn't say that. Thorin braced himself and lifted the iron. He would make it quick. He would spare her as much as he could. His eyes met the Southron's, and he knew that the man wouldn't let him make this even relatively easy.

The metal was still glowing when it touched the halfling's back, between her shoulderblades. Billa screamed. The sound tore through Thorin like a blade, and he jerked back, heart pounding.

"You're not done yet, little king. The burn isn't deep enough. Again."

Concentrating fiercely on breathing, Thorin lifted the iron once more, and watched the hot end bob and waver. He touched it to her back again, and the hobbit screamed a second time, a hoarse, wrenching sound. The first burn was a pink shadow of the second, which was deep, angry red, shiny and tight in the firelight as he removed the iron. Billa shuddered and collapsed as the man released her, letting her shirt, tunic and coat drop back over her body.

It only took a moment for the Southron to speak, but it seemed an eternity to Thorin, who couldn't take his eyes off of Billa's shaking form. She made no sound now, but seemed to be weeping into her arm, if the way her shoulders shook was any indication. Thorin hated himself for being the one that had hurt her so, but could he have justified any other course of action? She would have been branded anyway, and then she would have had to watch the others suffer the same fate. If it had been him, he knew he would have only wanted to suffer it once.

"You have shown bravery and honor. More than I expected from you, little king." The man's voice and expression were neutral, but his gaze seemed unusually sharp. "Take your woman back to your cell and enjoy her company another night. I'm feeling generous."

Dwalin frowned. "Ye said somethin' about food."

The Southron gave the hulking dwarf a sharp look. "Do not try me," he said softly. "If I see fit, I will provide you and your companions with food. If I do not, then it will be on your head." The threat was clearly understood, and Dwalin lowered his gaze. Thorin picked up his burglar and moved with the others back to their cells. The day's torments had left them sore and exhausted, and though Dwalin scowled and flexed his arms threateningly, and Dori glared at their captors, neither of them fought.

**((End torture scene.))**

* * *

"You know I had no choice." Thorin's voice was quiet, broken with grief and exhaustion.

"I know." Billa still trembled, tears streaking her face in the dim light, and she tried to sit up a little in his arms. The men had gone now, leaving them locked away in their cells, cold, tired, and hungry, but for the moment, undisturbed.

"If I had refused..."

"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Thorin." Billa reached up to pull his face toward her a little. Clearly she wanted him to look at her, but Thorin couldn't bear to. Her suffering was at his hands, and if there was a crueler punishment than this, the dwarf couldn't imagine what it might be.

"We of Durin's line are hardy of spirit, my love, but this... this asks too much. I am breaking."

" _No._ " Billa's response was surprisingly adamant, and Thorin heard several of the others shifting, as though startled. "No, Thorin. I won't let you break. Do you understand me?"

Thorin finally managed to turn his gaze upon her, though it shuddered, and couldn't hold hers. The halfling sat up, wincing, and leaned into his shoulder, wrapping her arms as far as she could around his trembling body. "Listen, Thorin. I fully intend to get you lot out of here. And if the only way of keeping you alive until that happens is to give him what he wants, so be it. We'll cooperate. For now."

"And if he orders me to kill you? What then?"

Billa hesitated for only a heartbeat. "We'll cross that bridge when, and only when, we come to it. I trust you, Thorin, and I love you, and nothing will ever change that." Her voice was beginning to quaver, but her arms were steady. Even though she couldn't reach all the way around him, the dwarf found her embrace comforting.

"Touching." His approach had been so stealthy that none of them had noticed. The Southron stood a little more than arms' length from the bars of Thorin's door, watching them, nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. Thorin tensed, drawing Billa closer to his chest. A hundred thoughts and a thousand fears flashed through his mind. Why was their captor here? What was his purpose?

"What do you want?" What was supposed to be a demand came out hoarse, his voice wavering unsteadily. The Southron's eyes gleamed as his dark gaze shifted slightly, then he turned away. A handful of tense minutes passed before another man entered the hall, his boots echoing loudly. Into each cell was dropped a large roll, a hunk of hard cheese, and a full canteen. They were the dwarves' own supplies, but it was unclear if this was a kindness or an insult.

"For you. It's not a trick." The man's words registered slowly, it seemed, as no one made a move for the supplies.

Finally, after a moment of searching the stranger's shadowy features, Thorin nodded. “It’s alright. Poison would be doing us all a favor." He helped Billa off his lap, then eased himself up, wincing a little as his injuries and aches complained. The hobbit retrieved the food, glancing warily at the one who had brought it, and presented Thorin with the roll. "How much should we eat now, and how much should we save? If we don't decide now, I'm sure I won't stop until everything's gone."

Despite the direness of the situation, Thorin had to smile at that. None could equal the appetite of a hobbit. A _pregnant_ hobbit had to be at least twice as bad.

The roll in his hand was stale, and he couldn't imagine the cheese was in any better condition. After a moment's thought, he shook his head slightly.

"Saving a portion would do us little good in the long run." He broke the roll in half and pushed the larger of the two pieces into Billa's hand. If he'd thought she would take it, then he would have given her the whole thing. She needed it.

Billa gave him a piece of cheese and settled against his side to eat without complaint or protest.

Thorin watched her silently. She took a bite of the cheese and closed her eyes, smiling contentedly. One would have thought she'd just sampled a delicacy from the royal table. After she'd eaten the rest of her cheese with equal relish, her focus seemed to return to her mate, her contentment replaced with concern.

"You're not eating?"

Thorin was a little embarrassed. She'd think his reasons foolish, naturally. "I am waiting."

"What for? Them to come snatch it away from you?" The hobbit frowned at him. "Don't make me force feed you, love. It'd be most unpleasant."

Thorin lowered his head, chuckling through a sigh. "A small pleasure, Billa. Nothing more. I enjoy... watching you eat."

It was hard to tell in the darkness of their cell, but Thorin thought he saw Billa's cheeks flush. If he'd had any doubts, her tone when next she spoke dispelled them.

"Confusticating dwarf. Eat your food." The smile in her words was worth a thousand hurts at the Southron's hands. Really, he was glad to find that the simple joys of being with his mate hadn't lost their charm.

A sudden thought, one of Dís' reaction when she learned that her younger son wasn't the only one to be having a child out of wedlock, made him wince around his mouthful of bread. Billa didn't notice, and for that, he was grateful. Explaining his sister's attitude toward the subject wasn't something he wanted to engage in.

It took little subtlety to convince the halfling to eat his cheese as well, and if gratitude could melt stone, then they would have been in the open air in no time at all.

"Sleep, Billa. We'll plan more tomorrow."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For those that skipped the entire chapter** this is a summary of the whole kit and kaboodle.  
>  Thorin is stunned by the revelation that he's to be a father, but decides (surprise surprise) not to think about it. They plan their escape, but conclude that the best thing to do right now is to wait, and bide their time.  
> The Southron later forces Thorin to accept a brand, a deep burn of his personal sign made to his shoulder. Billa is made to give Thorin a haircut, which she can do, and even enjoys. Thorin doesn't see the loss of his hair as a positive thing, but doesn't tell Billa how much of an insult she just gave. The Southron then makes Thorin take up the brand and use it on Billa, insisting that Thorin should suffer as he did--unable to save or spare his wife.  
> Afterward, Billa and Thorin are allowed to return to his cell together, and they mutually comfort one another and are even provided with rations. Thorin makes Billa blush. Chapter end.
> 
>  **For those that only skipped the torture scene in the middle** this is a summary of that scene.  
>  The Southron forces Dwalin to brand his leader, using a brand of the Southron's making, in the design of his own sign. Then the Southron orders Billa to cut off all of Thorin's hair. She takes this well, and is even cheerful about its execution, but Thorin takes the loss of his hair as deeply as any insult he's ever been dealt. Though he knows Billa is likely ignorant, he doesn't tell her what a deep hurt she has actually inflicted. Afterward, the Southron tells Thorin to apply the same brand he just took to Billa. He protests, trying to take the punishment on himself, but the Southron denies him, insisting that Thorin should suffer as he suffered--knowing his wife was in pain, but unable to spare her. Afterward, telling him he has shown "strength and honor," the Southron allows them to return to their cells.


	12. Consent; Dís

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though she worries about her brother, Lady Dís of Erebor has another problem to wrestle with - namely, what she's to do to ensure Thorin's return from his (renewed) exile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reader (a wonderful, wonderful reader under the name "Roadkill") pointed out to me that some of you might be worried that the last few chapters, as unpleasant as they've been for Thorin and Billa, might be endangering their child, and this idea might have added to your distress. 
> 
> To be perfectly honest, I hadn't considered that possibility this early in the story. Nor, apparently, has Billa. 0.o Go figure.
> 
> In any case, I wanted to extend to you all a sincere assurance of the baby dwobbit's health and relative safety. I'll admit the tyke's been rather hungrier of late than the poor thing is used to, but that should be amended in the near-ish future. :) I hope this helps you all feel better about the heartless, bloody torment we inflict on our already traumatized characters. 
> 
> But in all seriousness, we're past the worst of it, as far as "torture" goes. We won't have to post any warnings for a good long while, and when we post warnings next, it will probably be for something much different. :D

Dís closed her eyes with a sigh. Nothing was turning out the way it should have. Nothing. Her brother, her sons, her home. The throne. The stone.

"Lady Dís?"

Of course, it would be easier if he didn't sound so genuinely concerned.

"A headache, my lord," she responded. "Nothing more." She opened her eyes to look at Dain, whom she'd thought absorbed in Councilman Kairn's explanation of the supplies needed in the easternmost workshops. Kairn was frowning at his king, but Dain paid him no heed, his dark eyes on Dís.

"You're sure? I could have something brought-"

"I'm fine."

Honestly, she was torn between mistrust and flattery. It had been many long years since anyone had paid such attention to her.

"If there is anything you need, Princess - anything at all - I trust you know I am at your service." Dain's words seemed rather out of place in the stodgy meeting, but Dís nodded, producing the faintest of smiles.

"For that, you have my gratitude." _If only it were true._

The councillors resumed their discussion, settling, at great length, the majority of the issues addressed. All but one, and it seemed appropriate it was saved for last.

The councilman who brought it up was younger, one Dís had learned was fiercely loyal to Dain, and desperate to rise in his favor. If Dís hadn't known better, she might have begun to make comparisons to her younger son.

"And what of those who question your right to rule, my king?" Councilman Frin made nebulous gestures with his hands that didn't really supplement his point. "There are those - even among the nobles, and especially amongst those who have come from outlying settlements - who murmur in the shadows that what was done was unnatural. Some bolder souls have dared used the word... _usurpation._ Oughtn't there to be some action against such talk, such... traitorous whisperings?"

There was a brief silence as Dain studied the young councilman, and Dís felt a chill. Those who were participating in 'traitorous whisperings' were the ones that were most likely to support her when it came down to it, and she couldn't afford either to lose them or to display her connection to them. Firebeards and Broadbeams from Ered Luin, Ironfists and Blacklocks from the far north. Many had heard the Mountain had been reclaimed, the last of the great Dwarf kingdoms. Their numbers grew slowly still, but those that were not from the Iron Hills tended to grumble. The name "Oakenshield" was not unknown, even to the farthest clans.

"I suppose something ought to be done," agreed Dain slowly, looking troubled.

"Perhaps," suggested Dís softly, and every eye turned on her, some suspicious, some otherwise, "they ought to be observed. Dealing with traitors is all well and good, but the Mountain needs workers if it is to thrive."

This was met with some amount of murmuring, though no one seemed confident enough to speak beyond that. There was some amount of risk in entering the discussion, and it was sufficient enough risk to make reluctant even those that had spoken boldly before.

After a moment's consideration, Dain nodded. "You are right, of course, my lady. However, the Mountain will need far more than workers if there is a revolt. For now, we will watch. We will take names of those in positions of authority who doubt my leadership, and see what comes of their 'whisperings.' Nothing less than swift action will serve if the trickle of disloyalty becomes a torrent."

Dís felt a chill crawling up her spine. This did not bode well at all. If Dain began weeding out those even marginally loyal to Thorin, there would be no hope for his restoration to the throne. Still, this move might be repurposed... if turned by the most capable of hands.

At length, the meeting came to an end. Mostly, Dís thought, because no one could concentrate on the topic at hand (which she couldn't recall at the moment). Standing, she smoothed her heavy skirts. Though she could sense Dain behind her, the dwarrowdam didn't turn to look at him. She wanted to visit Óin, but knew she didn't dare. Not right now. In fact, with two members of the Company remaining in the Mountain, she couldn't risk contacting either of them. They would be under the greatest suspicion, and she didn't-

"My lady."

Dís sighed inwardly. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"I would speak with you. Privately." Dain's voice was low, as though he didn't want to risk being overheard. She paused and glanced back at him, feeling another little chill.

"About what, my king?"

"I will explain."

That left little room for argument, and Dís reluctantly nodded. Perhaps he suspected something. Perhaps he meant to test her. That thought quickened her pulse, and she did her best to maintain a calm exterior.

Dain waited until the room had cleared before turning to Dís. Something had changed in his face, in his bearing. It was softer now, more relaxed. There was the hint of a smile hiding behind his beard. Dís wasn't sure whether to be relieved, or afraid.

"It was a difficult thing, I know," Dain said at last, "watching your brother go. A difficult, but necessary act. Your loyalty to me in this time, Princess, has been a great boon. Know that I do not take it for granted."

Loyalty to him. The words galled her, but she kept her expression as neutral as possible.

"I'm sure what I did was only what any of us would have. I understand politics better than I would like to, at times." Dís bowed her head slightly, and began to turn away, testing to see if the king had finished. By the way he lurched to his feet, she assumed that he hadn't.

"It's... more than that. Your loyalty has moved me, deeply, and I... wanted to express my gratitude. Properly."

Dain fingered one of his braids and studied a wall hanging as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. He looked almost nervous, in spite of his generally grim and grizzled appearance, and Dís recalled their conversation before the coronation. Thorin's reaction had been jealously protective and appreciated, but the dwarrowdam hadn't forgotten the way both options had appealed to her. Nor could she honestly say she was entirely set against him now. Did she trust him? Of course not. But that didn't mean she disliked his attentions.

"Would you consider... and you must know I won't take offense if you want to think on it first. But would you consider becoming my consort?"

Dís studied his features carefully. He was serious. When was he anything but? The motivation behind the invitation, though, that was  far less clear. Was there genuine fondness for her behind the benefit it would be to have Thrain's daughter as his consort? Would it matter if there were?

"Give me some time, my king. It is a weighty decision, as you imply, and one not to be made after a mere moment's consideration. Know, however, that I am deeply honored, and see the wisdom in such an arrangement."

Dain nodded gravely and, to her surprise, bowed. Since his ascension to the throne, the dwarf had been as lordly as anyone could have expected. More so, if truth be told, and likely because he needed to assert himself as the rightful king before more of Thorin's kin from Ered Luin joined them. He wouldn't have the advantage of numbers forever.

That train of thought slowed as Dís watched him move toward the door. Was it possible that there was more to his actions than a simple hunger for power and dislike of the other races? She didn't much like Thorin's One, but the little halfling had proven herself admirably during her escape, and had shown no fear, when a lesser creature might have. Still, love could make one stupid.

With a shake of her head, the dwarrowdam stroked her short beard and followed her king. In time, she told herself, things would settle out, and Thorin would take the throne again.

* * *

Dís entered her chambers and shut the door behind her, collapsing against it with a sigh.

"Everything alright, milady?" Nikû's low voice drifted around the partition. The loyal bodyguard had been waiting for her mistress's return, no doubt busying herself with the sketches for her latest forge project, as she often did in the absence of her charge. Two knives she'd recently made hung from sturdy sheaths on each side of her belt, matched blades with triangular hilts.

"As well as can be expected, under the circumstances," Dís replied finally. "Put some tea on for me, if you would."

Dís was pleased to see Nikû had kept the fire up, and after she had changed out of her formal attire, she reclined on the velvet-upholstered settee before the hearth, seemingly contemplating the pattern in the rug at her feet.

At length, the kettle began to whistle, breaking the dwarrowdam from her thoughts. Nikû fetched cups and prepared the tea in silence.

 _Consort._ The idea was distressing to say the least. Thorin would think it a betrayal of the first degree. Sharing the bed of the one who had usurped her brother, standing at his side, united, tacitly enforcing his every decree, supporting his claim to the throne. And yet, she could think of no way to more fully earn his trust. It was a dilemma, to be sure.

"There _is_ something wrong, Princess, and not just the usual. What's happened?" Nikû pressed a mug into Dís's hands, looking on with obvious concern.

Dís shook her head slightly, gripping the mug tightly enough that the earthenware handle squeaked in protest.

"The best way to serve is to betray, and the price of denial might be that I cannot serve as well - what if in denying betrayal, I deny the throne?" Without any of the incriminating details, which she dared not speak aloud, even here, the problem was only all the more overwhelming. Dís groaned into her mug. Nikû watched her mistress quietly, seeming to take her time in processing the question. Her strong, burn-scarred fingers traced the blunted pommel of one of her knives.

"And what sparked this, milady?"

"The king," answered Dís heavily, "has asked for my... consent."

"Consent?" Nikû sounded faintly alarmed. "What do you mean?"

"His consort. He wishes me to be his consort." Dís frowned into the fire, looking ever so much like her brother.

"That's absurd!" Nikû exploded, then lowered her gaze and bowed apologetically, despite the fact that Dís's back was to her, and thus the gesture went unnoticed. "Begging your pardon, of course, but what can he mean by that? After what he did... to your royal brother. And your own son. The kingdom would be better served if he were _your_ consort, not the other way around."

Dís winced. All the things she couldn't say in one breath from her most trusted confidant. Not that she would have expected anything different from her friend. Who was to tell her that servants couldn't be friends to those they served?

"I believe his request is... sincere. I don't have a good reason to refuse."

"Don't have a good-" Nikû sounded fit to explode again. Dís turned to look at her bodyguard in time to stop her blurting out the rest of the thought she could see forming on Nikû's lips.

Nikû turned away with a sigh. "It's just... not proper of him, that's all."

Dis took a sip of her tea, then set the cup down. "I think I will be the judge of that." A long silence ensued, during which Nikû stared contritely at the floor, aware she'd gone too far. At length, Dis stood. "The quiet grates at me. I will spend the evening in the forge."

"But you've only just retired. I thought you'd be-"

"Overthinking is what exhausts me. By comparison, the work of my hands is light."   

Nikû hesitated a moment, then nodded. Dís stood, aware that her bodyguard was likely going to follow her. She needed time, but she didn't want to allow idle hands to interfere.

"My tools." She would work on something familiar. Something comforting. Something-

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Lady Dís?"

She stopped. If the dwarf had been in sight, she might have hit him.

"What is it?" Her tone was controlled, but that didn't minimize her desire to inflict pain on the interloper.

"I bring news. A message from Ered Luin."

Dís paused, her anger momentarily put aside. "What message?"

"May I... may I come in? The message isn't a seemly one to shout, Princess."

"Very well."

Nikû greeted the newcomer warily, fingers curled over her sword belt. Dís searched the face, but couldn't recall ever having met the dwarf who stood before her, a thinly-bearded, red-haired youngling too scrawny to fill the clothes he was wearing. He bowed courteously.

"Milady, I - my news is not precisely from Ered Luin. I _have_ come from there. A company of fifty, mostly tradesman. On our way here, though, a few leagues off the main gates, we found something that concerned us, considering the news that greeted us upon arriving here." Under the watchful eye of Nikû, the dwarf removed his pack and produced from it a tattered, rust-blotched cloak. "The design of this trim is-"

"Thorin's." Dís said quietly, reaching for the garment.

The youth tensed. "We knew it was Ereborian, but..." Dís didn't seem to hear him. She took the cloak between her hands, feeling her heart begin to sink. Torn, blood-stained and ragged, it certainly didn't bode well for the garment's owner.

"Did you find anything else?" she asked, voice soft, but firm. "Packs, weapons, footprints?" She had to know. If her brother was in danger, she would have to do something about it, and quickly.

"If there were footprints, they've since been erased by wind and rain, I guess." The youth sighed, looking very troubled. "I beg your pardon if this seems... insensitive, but... my father was one of your brother's Company. Glóin. I was wondering if you know whether he remained here or... followed the king in his banishment. The soldiers I've asked won't speak of it, and the workers seem afraid." The dwarf ran a hand through his thin beard. "Nothing is as it was when the messages came from Erebor requesting tradesman - it's... it's all wrong."

Dís hesitated only a moment. "Glóin went with the others. Your uncle remained, however. You might find him in the healers' hall." For the moment, she could sympathize with the lad's situation. This was hardly what such a young thing could be expected to deal with alone. "Tread lightly, my young friend. Those who remain loyal to the king in his exile are being carefully watched, and not many of those eyes are friendly."

"Milady," the lad bowed again, his face set determinedly, "I'm afraid my father must be in the same danger as your brother. If you are going to look for the king, I beg you to let me come with you. I know I'm young, but my father has taught me well."

"There will be no search. Not right now." Dís hoped the pain in her heart didn't show in her face. She couldn't afford to betray her loyalties. But if she hid them and her brother died, to what end would it be? What would she gain, would _anyone_ gain, from her hard work?

"You can't mean that!" The youth stared aghast at her, and Dís felt a stab of shame. "What of our kin?"

"Hold your tongue, young'un," warned Nikû, and the youngster fell silent again.

Queen of Ered Luin, sister of the King of Erebor, mother to his heirs. Powerless. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. No. She would not stand idle. Even if Thorin was beyond her reach, she would act, and she would do her best for the dwarves of Erebor.

"What is your name, lad?"

"Gimlí, son of Glóin, ma'am."

"Gimlí, I can't afford to leave Lord Dain unwatched. Therefore I charge you with the task of finding my royal brother and his companions." She kept her voice low, and beckoned him closer. "Nikû, this will require stealth, and a knowledge of Erebor I'm afraid our young friend lacks. See that he is equipped and accompanied to Laketown. With luck, the hobbit will still be there."

Nikû lifted an eyebrow, and Dís smiled grimly.

"Not tonight. Two days hence. Possibly three. You will know when."

* * *

"You... you accept?" Dain swallowed, and for a moment his hard exterior crumbled to reveal surprise. Dis nodded, and after a moment's hesitation, Dain took her hand. Though the gesture felt stilted, it was clear he was making an attempt at tenderness. "Milady, you honor me. I did not think..." He trailed off, looking a bit lost, as if he didn't know what to say now, or how to act. Foreign territory, this romantic stuff. "I held out little hope you would."

"It has been... a long time since any showed such concern for me." Dís' answer wasn't strictly true, and it wasn't hard to let a little self-consciousness into her tone. Vulnerability had never been an impression she cultivated, and she wasn't going to belabor it now. "I considered your suit and I believe you mean more than political gain from it." With a faint smile, she clasped his hand, just firmly enough to let him know she saw him as her equal.

Dain was still too overwhelmed to form an appropriate response, but his expression was one of gratitude. "We should... celebrate. This is wonderful news." Dís wondered dryly if his son would think the same.

Dís managed a genuine smile. "Nothing extravagant is needed, my lord. You have been more than kind already."

"Nonsense," Dain said, returning the smile. It seemed, somehow, odd on his face. Not to say unpleasant, but definitely odd. "For my future queen - Thrain's daughter - nothing is too extravagant. Leave the preparations to me."

Dís nodded slowly, as though reluctantly acceding. "I am... honored."

As Dain turned away and ordered the preparations for a feast, Dís relaxed inwardly. He would be occupied for a good while, she thought. Perhaps that occupation would be with her, but Gimli and Nikû would be free to find and rescue, or avenge, her brother.

"Lady Dís." Dain was looking at her again, and Dís refocused her attention on him. "You have made me... very happy." He was struggling for words once more. It was sort of endearing, how hard he was trying for her. "I would like to return the favor. Is there anything I can grant you? Anything in my power?"

Dís felt a thrill. Anything in his power. Now, though, didn't seemed like a best time to ask for what she truly wanted. For now, she gave him as warm a smile as she could manage.

"Hold your promise, my lord. I desire nothing of you, and wish only..." she hesitated, and looked away, unable to completely bury the desire to see her kin safe once more. "I wish only prosperity for my people."

"As befits a queen-to-be. My lady..." Dain dipped his head a little, the dangling ornaments of the raven crown her brother had forged clanking behind his head. He'd added additional pieces to it after Thorin's banishment so as to put his own mark on it, but it seemed rather out of keeping with his normal practicality. Nor did it fit him particularly well, looking slightly too tight, and ill-proportioned to his face. She wasn't certain why she was taking notice of this _now._

"I shall return to my chambers, my king, by your leave," she said, bowing in turn. "I have a few preparations of my own to make, looking onward to our future together."

* * *

What she was actually looking forward to was a triumphal return.

Dís pumped the bellows of the small forge mercilessly, one gloved hand steady on the cool end of the silver bar she was heating. Already, she knew her face and arms were soot-blackened, but she wore the forge's mark with pride. It was better than the alternative. For the past two days, Dain had been putting the whole Mountain into a tizzy, preparing for a celebration she thought both extravagant and unnecessary. Still, he was distracted, and that was the point.

"My lady."

At first, she feared the voice belonged to Dain. He had no right to invade the peace of her forge! She turned, the glowing silver bar in her gloved hand poised like a weapon. Nikû lifted an eyebrow at the apparent threat, and Dís felt a twinge of embarrassment.

"Yes? What is it?" The attempt at casual briskness didn't entirely fail, and Nikû seemed to know better than to say anything about it.

"Everything is ready. Did you wish to send a message?" The guard inclined her head slightly. Dís turned the silver over in her hands, thinking.

"Yes, but you must memorize it, for I'll not risk a letter." Dís entrusted them with a brief message to her brother, and was satisfied when both were able to repeat it to her verbatim. It was cryptic enough that if by some misfortune they were waylaid and it was forced out of them, her plans would not be undone, and at the same time, it would tell Thorin all he needed to know.

All this was, of course, assuming he yet lived. If her brother was dead, and her eldest son with him... then she didn't know where she would go from there.

"Take care you do not say too much when questioned by Dain's guards. You have your pretext, and that is all they need to know."

Nikû knew well enough how to proceed. It was this youngling she worried about. "If you are not able to discover the whereabouts of my brother and those loyal to him... I advise you to return to my halls in the Blue Mountains. If, in four weeks' time, you have not returned, I will send further instruction there."

Nikû bowed and glanced at Gimli. Their things were stashed somewhere, no doubt, and they will have gone by supper. As her handmaid and the youngling turned away, Dís worked the bellows again, resting her cooling silver in the glowing embers.

"Pump the bellows, lads, cut the stone," she sang softly to herself.

"Heat metal, leather, wood and bone.

Bring from earth what fire can find,

Form the world with hand and mind."

 


	13. The Way Out; Billa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Co. decide to make their break for freedom after over two weeks of imprisonment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to update you folks on what's what:  
> \- Loki and I just finished writing chapter 18! We're maintaining our buffer, if only just.   
> \- Loki is going to study costume design in New Zealand. o.O *so jealous*  
> \- I have a job! *celebrates*
> 
> And to any of you who are [still] waiting for an update on _Of Gold and Ghosts,_ I would like to take a moment to beg your forgiveness. I've really been on a roll with writing original works, and I was afraid that if I broke off to write another chapter, I might lose my groove. I'll try to get one written this week, though, so hang on just a little longer, my friends!
> 
> Without further ado--Chapter Thirteen!

Billa woke, shivering. The darkness was oppressive, as usual, but after so long in its grasp, her eyes had adjusted well enough. She knew the dwarves could all see far better; it was an advantage she tried not to resent.

Thorin was still asleep, leaning against the bars, the gentle purr of his slow, even breaths comforting at her side. The floor was incredibly cold when one sat unmoving for hours on end, and she pressed herself more fully against the dwarf's warm body, hoping she wouldn't wake him. His face seemed very peaceful, what she could see of it in the dim light, and it did her heart good to see him thus. Already, his beard had begun to grow back in. One thing she'd noticed hobbits and dwarves had in common was that their hair tended to grow at an alarming rate, and somehow, here in this cold, dark cell, that was an encouraging thought.

They would get out of here. Things would return to normal. They had to.

"Billa?" Thorin's voice was groggy, and he half opened his eyes, shifting a little. "Did I wake you?"

She felt a twinge of guilt and pressed a hand to his chest. "No. Go back to sleep. I'm fine." Already, she could see he wasn't going to, and sighed. She wouldn't get back to sleep either, if the ache in her stomach was any indication. For the first few days, stress had been enough to put her off her appetite anyway, but so long without regular food was getting to her. At times, she was so hungry, she felt sick. Billa sighed. Thorin shifted again.

"Are you alright?" The concern in his tone was touching, but the hobbit knew it would do no good for either of them.

"Just hungry. Don't worry about it. There's nothing to be done."

"Well, there is something." Bofur's voice was a hoarse whisper, and Billa could just see his outline as he stood, hand on the bars of his door. In her mind's eye, she saw the raw, red scrapes over his left cheek, the imprint of the rough rock wall, the bruise ringing one dark, expressive eye.

"Aye, listen. There's naught stirrin' but us." Glóin sounded almost eager. Of the lot, he and Dwalin were the least injured, likely because they were the largest and strongest, clearly warriors in their prime.

"We have no guarantee waiting will give us any better of a chance, Thorin." Balin's voice followed, and Billa thought the poor old dwarf sounded half desperate, in his own, quiet way. "Another few days at such meager rations and we'll all be too weak to do more than survive."

"He's right, Thorin." Billa sought the dwarf's hand, shuddering slightly as her fingers brushed across the healing cuts on his wrists. Swallowing the tightness in her throat, she squeezed his hand. "We can't wait any longer. We just can't."

His fingers wrapped around hers and Billa felt some of the tension leave her. Thorin's dark head bowed, hardly a shadow in the dim cell. For a moment, she was afraid he would say no. Honestly, she didn't know how much more of this she could take.

_If I stay in this nasty hole another day, I think I might go mad._

"Very well," said Thorin heavily, and he gave the hobbit's hand a brief squeeze. "Bofur."

It took several agonizing minutes for the miner to unlock his door, and even longer to unlock each of the others. The feeling of relief that came of stepping out of the cell was almost overpowering. Billa's knees went a little weak.

"Billa, put on your ring."

"What?" The hobbit hadn't expected to hear anything of the sort from Thorin, and it frightened her a little.

"Put on your ring. If we're captured, you must go to Laketown and warn Fíli."

Billa shook her head firmly. "No. No, Thorin, I won't. I'm not leaving you."

"Billa." Thorin gripped both her shoulders suddenly, leaning down to her level, his gaze fixed on her with startling blue intensity. "You'll do as I say. Now is not the time, nor the place."

"Thorin... how can you ask me to- I can't. I won't."

"You'll do it for Fíli, for Ori. And," he glanced down at her midsection, "you'll do it for our child. You must, Billa. Promise me."

She hesitated, torn. The look in Thorin's eyes was so desperate, so earnest, it was almost impossible to say no. At the same time, the icy, clawing fear that had gripped her on those occasions when she thought him dead... already, it froze her heart. Billa had difficulty swallowing around the hard lump in her throat.

"Just... just promise me you'll get out. Please."

Thorin's grip on her shoulders weakened slightly, his gaze dropping. "I cannot promise things outside of my control. You know that, Billa."

"I know. Promise me anyway." Billa wasn't sure what difference it made, but she found herself desperate for his assurance, however false. She framed his face with her hands, watching his every shade of expression hungrily, memorizing it. His dark lashes were still veiling his eyes, and he exhaled slowly, then met her gaze again.

"I will find a way. You have my word."

A shudder passed through her, and a knot seemed to loosen somewhere between her lungs. It became easier to breathe. Lifting herself up, she gave him a slightly desperate kiss. "I'll hold you to that."

His hands tightened reflexively, and she felt the same sort of desperation in his response that infected every thought, every moment of her being.

"Put on your ring." Thorin's command was more of a plea, a hoarse whisper in the darkness. Billa gave her mate one last look, then slipped her hand into her pocket. A moment later, she disappeared.

Bofur and Glóin glanced about frantically. "What's-? Where's-" The hatted dwarf was the first to voice his confusion, but Thorin waved a hand to silence him.

"I'll explain later." Billa had forgotten that not everyone in the Company knew about her ring. In a way, she had preferred that. She hadn't wanted them to know that her chance finding of a piece of jewelry was to thank for much of her burgling 'expertise.' But that was vanity, and all very silly. Thorin would've said as much.

"The guard's asleep, I think," whispered Dwalin, limping heavily toward the bend in the corridor, around which burned their only source of light.

Billa touched the warrior's arm, making him jump. He hissed a curse, but stopped. It took only a moment for her to check around the corner. "Coast is clear. Our guard wandered off, I guess." Thorin was whispering protests, but Billa tuned him out. This was something she could do. This was what she'd been hired for.

As they crept around the corner, Billa moved once more to scout ahead. If there was danger lying in wait, she could at least provide something of a warning before the unarmed dwarves went and bungled their only chance. The corridor went on, surprisingly vacant. Bits of debris here and there, empty crates that the men seemed to have fashioned into seats, urns and pots and evidence of other goods that had been smuggled into the caves. But no guards.

It all seemed very odd. The muted footsteps behind her were interrupted only when one of the dwarves paused to pick up discarded material that might serve as crude weaponry. Sticks, rocks, boards - all would be better than fists, though Billa knew Dwalin's were nothing to dismiss.

The corridor split into two passageways curving off on either side, both dimly lit, and both unoccupied - as far as Billa could see down them, anyway.

She doubled back, panting despite how small her exertions had been. "I haven't the faintest which way to go," she admitted softly, noting Thorin and Dwalin each held torches now. They'd nearly burned down to their grips, the flames sputtering desperately for lack of fuel.

"It's left," said Balin, and Billa felt a wave of relief surge over her. "I'm sure of it."

Thorin had already moved ahead, and Billa jogged to regain the lead. She strove to keep her breathing even, despite the stitch that was developing in her side. She felt light-headed, and concluded that must be due to a lack of sustenance over the past few days. Farther along this new passage were fresh torches, indicating someone had been here recently.

As one, their pace slowed, and Billa crept carefully ahead, keeping her ears tuned to the faintest murmur of voices, the breathing of a man. At last, she heard it. Voices. Stopping where she was, she listened intently, putting out a hand to stop Thorin when he caught up with her.

"You said these prisoners would be mine to do with as I please," growled a familiar voice. Billa shuddered. If she never saw or heard the Southron again, she would be grateful to the end of her days.

"And they are," agreed a second voice, its nasally drawl unmistakable of the Master's hunched toady, Alfrid. "But vengeance will do you no good if you have no profit to build from afterward, will it?" His tone was deeply condescending, but if the Southron noticed, it didn't show in his voice.

"I think nothing of profit, Lakeman. I don't need dwarf gold to appease myself or my men."

"Waiting for the messenger will give us a better idea of how to proceed." Alfrid's voice dropped a little, and Billa crept forward, ears twitching. "Let us see if the ransom is paid, then make our decision, eh?"

"You said nothing of this!" the Southron growled. "If the prisoners are ransomed, how do I stand to profit? I want no gold. I want my revenge in full, not half. If the dwarf king is restored, do you not think he will bring such vengeance upon us that we will rue the day we crossed his path? He must not be allowed to leave alive."

"What do you take me for?" Alfrid snapped. "A fool? I've taken precautions so that doesn't happen. Once you've killed them all, what do we stand to gain? We'll be back to where we started. Nothing. We'll have _nothing._ "

"I want nothing else, weasel. Don't you see? No gold will bring my family back! Neither can any gold ransom the dwarf king and his little mate! Otherwise this has been for naught."

"Then kill them _after_ the ransom is paid," hissed Alfrid, his tone exasperated. "The gold will do you no harm, even if you insist it does no good-"

"No."

Thorin bumped into her, and Billa jumped. She'd nearly forgotten that she was merely listening, and not present in the room with them. Gripping Thorin's shirt, she prayed he would stay silent as she pushed him back. They needed to regroup. If they marched through without waiting for Alfrid and the Southron to move on, their good luck could come to a sudden and violent end.

"They're demanding ransom," Billa whispered, when they were far enough back that she could no longer hear the two men arguing.

Thorin drew the others' attention with a soft finger snap, then made subtle hand gestures Billa barely caught in the shifting haze blurring her vision. _Iglishmêk._ She'd insisted he teach her at one point some months before, but he'd not had time for more than a few simple words before both were distracted by other things, and then she'd forgotten about it altogether until now.

Dwalin signed something to Thorin, who responded with a few short motions before turning again to where Billa had been. "Find out if they're alone," he whispered. "We can waste no more time."

She felt only the briefest flash of annoyance at not being able to understand what he had said to the others before making a soft affirmative noise and creeping toward the room where the men had been bickering.

"Then go stand guard or something," snapped Alfrid, just as Billa came within earshot. "If you're too honorable to take profit, then _you_ can explain to your men why they don't get a share of the gold _I'm_ collecting."

A moment later, the Southron strode swiftly out into the corridor, his face only briefly illuminated by the fire in the room behind him. His expression was thunderous, and Billa held her breath as he turned, walking away from her and down the passage, disappearing into the shadows.

Alfrid poked his head into the hall, greasy hair swinging around his face. He muttered something under his breath, then withdrew into the room with a scowl.

So they were alone. That made things a bit easier.

A scant minute later, she'd returned to Thorin's side. He seemed a little startled when an invisible dagger was pressed into his hand, appearing only as Billa released it.

"Burgled it from Alfrid," she explained softly in answer to his wondering head shake. "The Southron's gone, and it's just that weasel in a room with a fire and some chairs."

"Billa..." Thorin began disapprovingly, then seemed to relent, examining the knife with a fleeting half-smile.

"It wasn't a risk, I promise," she assured him anyway. "He was too busy muttering to himself to notice anything." Thorin shook his head at her again, then glanced at the others.

"Leave the torches here. We'll not need them."

Billa felt a surge of elation as Thorin followed her, trusted her. That didn't, however, stop her legs from shaking, of her breath from coming in short, dizzy little spurts. The halfling set her jaw and slipped past Alfrid's room. She saw Dwalin quietly enter the room, and a grunt heralded the loss of one man's consciousness. Billa found herself hoping he had put an end to his miserable life. The thought, however, made her feel vaguely sick.

Along the way, there were several other occupied rooms, from which issued the snores of the Southron's men and the men of Laketown. The two guards they encountered were easily dealt with, chatting tiredly with one another at a fork in the path. They were talking about the Southron in a Laketown drawl, commenting on his temper. Billa held her breath while Thorin and Glóin approached and knocked the guards senseless.

Thankfully, there was what seemed to be an empty storeroom nearby, in which the unconscious men were quickly deposited, so as not to arouse suspicion. Past this point, the tunnel snaked this away and that, empty of men and their supplies. Billa led the way as before, scouting each turn before them best she could. All was dark around them now, and the dwarves groped their way along, hands skidding across the roughly chiseled walls.

Billa's heart was thudding a fearful cadence within her. To have made it thus far without incident was good luck, indeed. If only it would hold.

At length, Balin put out a hand to stop Thorin.

"I have a notion," he whispered, "this tunnel may be leading us deeper underground. The slope is gradual, but I'm becoming more sure of it."

"These old mining tunnels needn't necessarily work that way," Bofur suggested, though his voice offered only faint hope. "It led off the miners' quarters, and there haven't been any tunnels branching off it. I think it may be a ventilation channel. I thought I felt a draft a minute ago. From above us."

"But... no light?" Balin seemed a bit skeptical.

"That's not the way the shafts were engineered, if memory serves," Thorin offered. "There wouldn't be a direct avenue from the surface down. Too much risk of debris blocking the opening."

Billa made a small squeaking noise in her throat, beginning to feel rather claustrophobic. "Should we turn around?"

Thorin made a soft sound that was neither affirmative nor negative. A moment of silence passed, and Billa's stomach tightened anxiously, clenching around emptiness that had been filling it for the past several days.

"We should keep going," said Bofur, his whisper hoarse in the darkness. "If we hit a dead end, we'll turn around, but if we turn back now, we might be leaving the entrance behind."

"Turning back will do you no good." The voice, deep and accented, was unmistakably the same one she'd just heard arguing with Alfrid. Billa shivered, pressing herself against the wall. Thorin growled softly.

"Glóin-"

"No." It was too dark to see the Southron, but the halfling could hear that he was ahead of them. "The way out is ahead, and naught but suffering behind. Only I stand in your way. Tell me, little king, what is your choice?"

"It seems I have none."

"There is _always_ a choice."

Billa edged along the wall, peering hard into the darkness. Was he alone? The ring provided amplified hearing, but she caught little to suggest the presence of anyone besides the Southron in the tunnel ahead.

"You have never spoken aught but truth to me," Thorin said carefully, "and I've little cause to disbelieve you. If what you say is true, you must know I have no recourse but to seek freedom, or die in the attempt."

There was a dark, pregnant pause, in which the narrow passage became a smothering presence on all sides.

"Good." A faint rustle, the shifting of shod feet against stone. "Come." Already, his footsteps were starting to recede.

"Stay close," came Thorin's whisper. Billa obeyed, though she was sure that, had he dared, her mate would have ordered her to hang back and escape at the first opportunity. This new development was baffling to say the least, but they followed the Southron with naught but the soft shuffling of feet and nerves singing with tension.

It became hard to hear the others around her. Billa's heart thundered in her chest as a series of 'what ifs' raced through her head. What if Thorin was injured, and couldn't travel? What if he ordered her to flee without them? What if he was killed? The idea of being alone on the heath was enough to make her feel sick. If there had been anything in her stomach, it would have long ago made an unpleasant reappearance.

"Here." For the first time, Billa noticed that the Southron's voice, too, was soft, as though he wanted to avoid detection. Ahead, she could see the faint gleam of starlight off the silvery, clinging mist of the heath. The man's outline was barely discernable from that of the tunnel's uneven wall. "On one condition only do I release you, little king. When next we meet, you will honor your challenge. Only one of us shall live."

For a moment, no one moved.

"Tell me your name." Thorin's tone was unreadable, but terribly serious. If he felt anything, Billa couldn't hear it in his words.

"Hakim."

"You have my word as a king, Hakim. You shall have your fight."

Billa couldn't afford to process the implications of this agreement. Not now, anyway. As the group passed the Southron, she heard Dwalin whisper, "He's alone, Thorin. Not in a position to make demands. What if he returns to the others and leads 'em after us?"

"I trust him." Thorin's tone was resolute, and Dwalin let the subject rest. It was clearly a difficult thing to swallow for them all - that after everything they'd suffered at this man's hands, on some level, Thorin connected with him. Thorin, who had every reason to kill, would instead honor the Southron's grievance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: If any of you are interested in being a test audience for my (Lady Juno's) original works of fiction, and haven't already emailed me, please drop me a line at c.inkypaws@gmail.com to let me know! I'm always looking for more wonderful folk to test-read my stories, and I'm more than willing to help out with yours in return if you ask me to.


	14. Reluctant Allies; Fíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and Ori finally depart from Laketown, having lost hope that Thorin and the others will return. Unfortunately, not even that is anywhere near as simple as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki and I wish you all a very wonderful Monday (and hope that this chapter improves it). I'd like to warn you beforehand... that Fíli is more like his uncle than we've shown before. And can be very creative with his insults. :)

Fíli looked back, the gleam of the Lake in the sun nearly blinding. Ori sat down with a soft groan. Neither of them had been willing to stop earlier, the driving fear of Thorin's failure to return keeping them on the move despite aching feet and sore legs. The blond sighed and passed a hand over his face, the grit of dried sweat abrasive against his brow.

_Two weeks. He would have told me to leave if he'd been there. Would've told me I was a fool to stay as long as I did._

These silent assurances, echoes of thoughts he'd entertained for many long days now, did nothing to soothe the burning guilt and heavy grief that plagued him.

"Sit with me, love." Ori's voice broke through his melancholy, and Fíli sighed.

"It'll take a few weeks to get to Rivendell." Planning could take his mind off the pain for a while. "We'll have to go over the High Pass, but there's a village in the foothills where we can get supplies before we make the crossing."

Ori said nothing, plucking anxiously at the braided hem of her arm-warmers.

Moving made things easier, the blond decided. Waiting in Laketown had been terrible, and though he was now all but certain Thorin and the others were dead, having something to do - something to distract himself from what he'd dreaded admitting to himself these past weeks - made things more tolerable.

They'd spent days combing the rocky, inhospitable slopes along with the cold, shrieking wind. Nothing. He couldn't decide whether he would have preferred finding them dead or not. To never know for sure... that was a hard thing.

"I don't think they're gone," Ori said presently, as though she'd read his thoughts. "I... can't believe it."

Fíli turned to look at her, striving to loosen his tightening throat. "There's nothing more to do. If they're still out there somewhere... they'll understand."

He made himself smile and rubbed Ori's cold fingers between his palms. Inside, though, he couldn't shake the bitter conviction that if Thorin were alive, they would have seen signs by now. Six dwarves wouldn't have been held prisoner easily, and surely, if they were alive, _one_ of them would have gotten a message to Laketown.

"Here, have a drink, Ori." Unhooking the water canteen from his belt, he offered it to his wife, who gave him a sad smile as she accepted it. It wasn't hard to tell that she knew he wasn't convinced. But there was no point to talking about it.

"Are we going through Mirkwood?" The dwarrowdam's expressive eyes showed fear as she glanced toward the dark line of trees. Fíli almost laughed, remembering the first time he'd realized Ori was a girl.

"No. There's no hurry this time. We'll go around."

Ori looked relieved, but the expression faded into something else. She held the canteen, but didn't drink. "It all seems like a dream now," she said, eyes distant. "We were all together. All of us. And my brothers... they..." She looked away quickly, blinking rapidly.

"They were trying to protect you." Fíli wondered how she was able to keep it together so well. _Probably the same way I am. With difficulty._

The blond couldn't imagine how it would have been to lose his own brother. Losing an uncle was bad enough.

"But Dori wasn't supposed to... to..." Ori choked out. "Things were just going well. I don't understand. Why?"

Fíli remembered then, with a guilty, gut-wrenching jolt, that now Ori was alone in the world. Her parents were long dead, Nori lost to the battle, and now... now Dori had disappeared without a trace, along with the rest of them. She was utterly alone, and he was the only one left to protect her. It was a heavy, anxious burden to bear, but one he'd shoulder gladly, if it meant wiping the distress from her face. Fíli put his arms around her and drew her close.

It was curious how one could feel another's heartbeat in her hand, when she held on tightly enough. Ori clung to him, though she refused to show weakness, to shed tears.

"If the world were mine to order, I would have put things right. But they aren't right. You and I will just... just have to be strong."

Ori nodded against his shoulder. "You'll have to be stronger, love. With your uncle gone... those loyal to him will look to you now to make things right. That's what scares me, Fee. I know you could do it. It's just..." She pulled back a little to look him in the eyes. "You're so young to bear such a burden."

Fíli shuddered a little at the realization. She was right. He'd forgotten. Or simply put it out of his mind. As his uncle's heir, it was his duty now never to rest until he'd avenged Thorin. He had no desire to further delve just what that might involve. "I'll do what I have to," he said soberly. "It's not the first time I've had to face the prospect."

The memories came all too clearly, bombarding him with the wild panic of waking to the knowledge that his brother and uncle were both fighting in a battle the likes of which dwarves hadn't seen since Moria. The sight of his uncle, pale as death and not moving. The sound of Billa's wrenching, tearing grief.

Fíli shook his head. "I'll do what I have to," he repeated, and hoped the shakiness didn't come through as much as it felt like it had. "Come on, love. If we keep moving, we can reach the treeline by midnight."

It was hard to keep walking, now that his legs had remembered what it felt like to rest. Still, the blond set his jaw and kept on, one hand locked around Ori's. She seemed exhausted by the weight of grief, and he could only hope that exhausting her body as well would make the night easier to bear. As they walked, velvet darkness wrapped around them, the temperature falling back into the realm of freezing. This change made it at once easier and harder to continue. On the one hand, wrapping up in a blanket sounded like the best idea since the first forge. On the other, it was too cold to stop. If he let his heart slow its pace, his blood might freeze in his fingers and toes. Having Ori close helped, though.

It felt much later than midnight when they reached the treeline, although the moon was still two marks off its zenith when they finally stopped. Neither bothered to build a fire, or to eat, before huddling together under all three of their blankets and falling into an exhausted sleep.

"What is your business here?"

Fili shot awake, instinctively flinging himself between Ori and the figure looming over them. Though the light was spare, he could tell well enough the newcomer couldn't be anything other than an elf.

The young dwarf hesitated, trying to will his breathing to return to normal. Whatever the elf's purpose, at least it was clear he wasn't in league with Dain, and yet, Fíli was quickly mastered by an adamant notion that this wasn't the business of Thranduil or his folk.

"Trying to sleep," he said cagily, wondering whether he'd be able to get at one of the five knives on his person quickly enough. Not that he thought it likely to come to that. "I thought that much was obvious."

"Fee," Ori cautioned, peeking around him.

The elf moved out of the shade of the night-shrouded trees, circling them evaluatively, employing a confident strut Fíli keenly disliked. "This is a mystery, indeed. What could Thorin Oakenshield's _favored_ nephew possibly want here, so close to the Woodland Realm?" The elf smirked. "I thought your little brother was the one with the elven... infatuation."

 _That_  touched a nerve. If not for Ori's hand on his shoulder, he might have done something significantly less intelligent than shooting his mouth off at an elf. He adopted a smirk of his own and put a hand on top of Ori's.

"Don't get your hopes up, Twinkle-toes. Even if I was in the mood for a piece of tree-mated girly-man, I don't think you're quite my type." He saw the elf pause, and congratulated himself on a blow well-struck. "Our business here is none of yours, so you can go back to your eight-legged pets and leave us alone."

"Fíli." Ori sounded absolutely appalled, and the blond felt the barest twinge of regret - regret that she'd heard his insults.

The elf crossed his arms, lifting his chin slightly with the effect that he now looked quite haughty as he stared down at them. "A little more courtesy would go a long way, princeling. I know the concept seems foreign to one so long steeped in your uncle's vitriol."

"We're trying to get to Rivendell," Ori offered, and Fíli sighed, shutting his eyes momentarily.

"And what do you seek in Imladris?"

"Our kin." Ori was clearly ignoring her husband's obvious displeasure. "Kíli and Tauriel."

Fíli could tell the name of the former captain was somewhat of a sore spot for the elf, whoever he was. Or perhaps it was the notion she was now related by marriage to dwarves that unsettled him?

"If you go to our kin in Imladris," said the guard in a voice that was at once soft and stiff, "then this is a matter for the king. He will surely want to... provide for your journey." With his toe, the elf nudged Fíli's side. "Come on, up you get."

"You've gotta be joking. We just walked all the way from Laketown, and not even had a decent night's sleep before you go sticking your pointy-"

"Fíli!" Ori gave her husband a hard nudge, then turned her gaze on the elf. "I'm so sorry. Of course we'll come."

The journey was reasonably quick. That was the conclusion Fíli came to when he found himself standing before the tall gates of the Woodland King's palace, having been guided swiftly and efficiently along some invisible trail elven eyes could apparently perceive, even in the shadowed dark before dawn. With a sigh that was meant to sound long-suffering, he directed a look at Ori. _Now see what you've gotten us into?_

If Thorin knew they'd willingly marched back into the Woodland Realm, willingly entered the Elvenking's palace... but Thorin wouldn't know. That sudden remembrance was like a kick in the gut, and he didn't suppose it would get any less so. Not for a long while, at least.

Ori shrugged, silently watching the elf speak to the guards at the gate. He spoke in Elvish, which made Fíli very uncomfortable. For all he knew, he could have been telling them he'd brought fresh prisoners for Thranduil's dungeon.

At length, the elf returned to them. "I've no doubt the king will want to speak with you. I would advise you to express your gratitude for whatever service he might offer you, and keep anything less than polite to yourself. Unlike that possessed by my good self, his patience has limits."

Fíli snorted derisively, but received little more than a dirty look in return. The inside of the palace was as lavish as he remembered, with open spaces and graceful walkways and wide, sweeping stairs. He was surprised, as he had been last time, that most of the enormous complex was in or under massive tree, the boughs of which were leaf-bare as they stretched skyward high, high overhead.

Thranduil, perched on the edge of his throne, looked rather more ruffled than he had been last time Fíli had seen him. His silken blond tresses were in artful disarray, his robe pulled tightly about his slender body. The dwarf felt a certain measure of satisfaction, thinking the illustrious Elvenking had been unpleasantly woken, even as they had been.

"What business brings the Prince Under the Mountain to my doorstep at such an... uncourteous hour?"

Fíli felt a slight chill. After all, there had been representatives from Thranduil's court, three of them, present at the Coronation. The Elvenking knew that Thorin wasn't... hadn't been crowned. The blond felt slightly sick. The elves... might be in league with Dain. If that was the case, then he'd just led Ori into precisely the danger he'd sought to avoid.

"We travel to Rivendell, Your Majesty." Ori's voice quavered only slightly, but she was smiling, holding her husband's arm.

"So I was told," Thranduil said icily, looking very peeved. "Going to Rivendell to visit your kin, I believe. Indeed, it was not long ago we were graced by another Prince Under the Mountain... and his fair companion."

"We had no desire to come here at all."

When the Elvenking's dark brows knit, Fíli tacked on a rather stiff "your majesty," if only to make the previous words sound a little less hostile. Now was not the time to give Thranduil any excuse to detain them. "We meant to travel south. _Around_ the forest, and your realm. The elf who escorted us here said you would... you might..." He trailed off, looking down at his well-worn boots.

"He said you might be willing to give us aid," Ori said, quite spectacularly sparing Fíli's pride. "The journey will not be an easy one, and we've been through quite a lot these past few weeks." After a moment's silence, she added, "If it's too much trouble, your highness, it's not a bother. We'll... we'll manage well enough on our own."

Thranduil lifted his chin slightly, and Fíli swore he was trying to study their _souls._ The feeling wasn't a pleasant one, but the dwarf tilted his head back a little, only slightly unaware of the Thorin-ish impression he was giving.

"And where," asked the elf, quite as though Ori's last statement hadn't been a self-conscious withdrawal of the plea for aid, "are the rest of your little troop? I seem to recall your friends declaring themselves inseparable, when last we met." A moment's pause followed, in which Fíli's heart made a steep dive into his stomach. Thranduil's deep eyes narrowed slightly. "Where is... Oakenshield?"

Fíli twitched and looked away without meaning to. "Not here." _And none of your business._ The unspoken words were heavily implied in the blond's tone.

"We don't know," Ori said softly, squeezing Fíli's hand more tightly. "We fear... the worst." She gave a brief summation of when and how they'd lost track of Thorin and what remained of his Company, as well as how they had proceeded in the days that followed.

Thranduil shook his head afterward, looking genuinely surprised.

"A pity." He twisted one of his silver rings thoughtfully, gaze flicking outward in the vast, cavernous hall. "A pity, indeed, that Dain would betray the trust of his own kin. For all Thorin Oakenshield's faults, he would never have stooped so low as that." A pause.

Then his fingers stilled, his eyes returning to the dwarves before him. "And... the halfling? What do you suppose became of her?"

Fíli's throat tightened almost painfully, and he swallowed hard before speaking. This, he could not leave unanswered, and not because he felt the elf was entitled to know. He was afraid, and that fear made him weak in many ways. He wanted, in his secret heart, for Thranduil to tell him all would be well. Even if he had, the dwarf would never accept it. Strange, how his nearest neighbor was at once his most hated ally and the only authority figure he had access to.

"We don't know. Dain imprisoned her before we left, and... we haven't seen her since." The mental image of Billa, starving to death or maybe already dead in Erebor's dungeons made him shudder. His mother had sworn to help her escape, but what if it simply hadn't been possible? What if the light on the heath had been Dain's men, drawing Thorin out of Laketown?

Fíli shook his head, anxious to clear it of the thoughts that plagued him.

"That bodes ill." Thranduil's pronouncement was hardly the encouragement Fíli had sought, but he supposed he oughtn't have expected anything else. "If Dain has indeed killed your uncle and those closest to him, I do not think he would stop short of doing likewise with the rightful king's mate."

Ori swayed weakly on Fíli's arm. "You mean... you think Billa's dead, too?"

"Who can say?" The Elvenking shrugged slightly, sitting back in his throne. "She has proved resourceful in times past. I certainly could not have dreamed up a scheme as wild as smuggling thirteen dwarves out of this kingdom in empty wine barrels."

Fíli couldn't contain a weak laugh, remembering the incident. Billa had been sick for several days afterward and Thorin had hovered, and finally admitted his feelings for her. The memories brought on a piercing wave of grief, and Fíli looked away quickly, blinking hard.

"I believe I shall help you. I hold no fondness for kin-slayers."

The elf's voice startled both dwarves out of their own thoughts. Ori sagged slightly, weak-kneed with relief, and Fíli only just caught her.

"Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you."

Fíli resisted the urge to say something skeptical.

"Save your thanks. You will leave at first light."

This time, Fíli _didn't_ resist the urge. "First light? You've got to be joking! We've not have a decent sleep for days. We can't walk through the night and leave at first light." He was only slightly satisfied by the irritated look that crossed Thranduil's face.

"Midmorning, then. You will be on your way, Dwarf, whether you appreciate my assistance or not."

Fíli opened his mouth to argue, only to receive a sharp nudge from Ori, clearly telling him to shut up.

They passed what few hours remained of the night in a relatively comfortable guest room, and it seemed Fíli's head had scarcely touched the pillow before he was nudged awake once more. He muttered something, groggily batting away the hand that had touched him.

"I'm sorry," said a rather unapologetic voice, "but it's the King's wish that you prepare to leave." Ori made an unhappy sound, but the mattress shifted beside Fíli and he assumed she was getting up. He pried his eyelids open. The elf who had escorted them here. Didn't know his name yet.

"I have orders to draw you a bath, feed you, and see you are given suitable clothes and provisions. Whether you like it or not, I intend to carry out those orders to the letter, beginning now."

Fíli waved a hand weakly, feeling as though he weighed at least three times what he actually did. "Fine. Stop talking. Draw a bath."

Ori poked him in the ribs.

"Ow."

Fíli rolled onto his side to frown at his wife, and he was surprised when she frowned right back at him. After a moment, Ori turned to the elf with a beaming smile that Fíli was certain the bigoted guard neither deserved nor appreciated.

"Thank you for waking us, and for caring for our needs. Please, don't feel obligated to draw a bath, I can do that."

"Nonsense," muttered the elf, but seemed mollified. He turned away and moved toward a door Fíli hadn't noticed the previous night, half-hidden behind a mossy green curtain. "Your bath should be ready in a few minutes. In the meantime, breakfast will be brought."

True to his word, the elf returned shortly with a tray of warm food. Fíli was still in the process of forcing himself out of bed, and glowered at the elf in what he thought was a relatively neutral fashion.

"Do I have to bathe you, too?" the elf said, obviously peeved. "I could complete my entire day's duties in the time it's taking you to get out of bed. As it is," he sighed, setting the tray down on a small table against the wall, "you're my duty now, so I'll just have to make the best of it."

Fíli scoffed, stretching out on the edge of the mattress. "You'll only have to put up with us for another hour or so. I hope it doesn't ruin your life."

"On the contrary," the elf retorted with a cloying tone that made Fíli want to gag, "I'm to lead you out of the forest by the elven road, and ensure you leave Mirkwood as safely as possible."

The blond finally sat up properly and looked at their would-be nursemaid, unsure whether to hate him or feel sorry for him. "What'd you do to deserve that? Spill wine on the prince's favorite dress?"

"Fíli, behave!" Ori shot him a disapproving look, and Fíli was beginning to think she was as fond of elves as his brother. The idea galled him.

"What? I feel bad for him. Thrandy must be mad at him to send him with us."

"They're _helping_ us, Fee. There's no reason to antagonize him." Turning to look at the elf, she gestured helplessly. "I'm sorry. He's not usually like this."

The elf seemed to be in some amount of shock. "Th- Thrandy?" he stammered, as though it were some horrible obscenity he'd never known existed.

Fíli restrained the impulse to palm his face. "Alright, alright. Let's just get out of here. We don't need this pointy-eared beanpole's help. We'll be fine on our own."

"My name," the elf said, with an indignant shake of his fair head, "is Gwínir. Alas that my service to you is not negotiable. Noble though I be, I have fallen into disfavor, and must therefore have my fill of adversity and mean tasks before I am restored."

"Pleased to meet you, Gwínir," Ori said cheerfully, and Fíli again found within himself the urge to be sick. "We are grateful for all your help. Even if my husband is too proud to admit it."

Gwínir regarded the female with a curious expression, but said nothing as he bowed to her. When he had straightened, his face was once again impassive.

"When you are both clean, there will be clothes here for you to change into." The elf turned toward the main door and let himself out. Fíli shot Ori a glance.

"Too proud?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Well, you are. Which one of us should bathe first?"

As it happened, Fíli, having opted to 'take the first watch,' was still cleaning himself when Gwínir returned. The elf wasn't pleased, if his tone was anything to go by, but Fíli tuned him out. The smooth, pale skin he'd grown accustomed to seeing on himself wasn't the same anymore. His arms were laced with scars, and his ribs and belly both had knotted, reddish weals, marks of hasty stitching that had saved his life. The goblins, the orcs, the wargs and trolls.... The dwarf felt a sharp stab of regret. Thorin. Dwalin. Brave little Billa. How would he ever explain to Kíli? To his mother?

At length, he pulled himself out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. He would let Ori braid his hair. It seemed to help her relax, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to be made fun of for lopsided braids. That was his brother's job, and Kíli wasn't here. He knew there were clothes waiting for him in the main room, but he folded the trousers and tunic he'd been wearing and took them with him.

"What took you so long?" Gwínir frowned at him. "Couldn't figure out how to use the soap?"

"Gwínir." Ori's disapproving tone had a surprising effect on the elf. He flushed and looked away. For some reason, this didn't make Fíli feel any better.

He dressed in silence, putting on the clothes the elf had set out for him, more than a little amazed when they fit. They were simple, and in an elven style, dark green tunics and trousers in finely woven linen. They'd suffice, Fíli allowed. For now. He quickly put on his boots, which he noted to his initial annoyance had been thoroughly cleaned and mended, and then donned his coat and bracers.

Ori made short work of his hair, her skilled fingers braiding swiftly and efficiently, replacing beads here and there. She was already dressed and ready, her hair done, her food eaten. Fíli had finished his while she was bathing, the porridge filling and only mostly cold, and the fruit crisp and perfectly ripe.

Now all was ready. Or so Fíli thought. "My knives?" He turned an accusing look on the elf. "Did you take them?"

"They were dull and of poor make," Gwínir explained, looking perhaps a bit satisfied with himself. "A dwarf of all people should know that. We will stop by the armory on the way out, where you will be equipped with suitable weaponry. Not that I think you'll need it. I intend to lead you swiftly and well, and around the nests your Company stumbled through the last time you attempted the journey."

"There's still a... spider problem?" Ori asked, stiffening.

The elf shrugged. "We are culling it down. The spawn of Ungoliant are a hard breed to eradicate all at once, curse their spring hatchlings. Give it a year, and I am certain we'll have it sorted."

Fíli let out an incredulous snort, and drew Ori closer to him, feeling a touch protective. The comment about his knives he would let slide, but he would never admit the elf was right. They _had_ dulled quickly, and were of human make, not dwarven.

It was with difficulty that he kept his comments to himself as they followed Gwínir down to the armory. Seven knives had been laid out, complete with sheaths and straps, and a small bow and short sword for Ori as well. Fíli watched her tentatively try out the bow while he strapped his new weapons on. Two knives along his forearms, one on his thigh, two in his boots, one between his shoulder blades and one at his belt. They weren't as heavy as he was used to, but the catches on the sheaths were smooth, the release fluid enough that he grudgingly admitted (silently, to himself) that they weren't bad. The blades weren't all bad either, curved and smooth, like Orcrist, and waiting to be etched. Well-balanced.

_THUNK._

Fíli tensed, knife in hand, before he realized that Ori had hit the target some distance to their left.

"Good. Gwínir will coach you in archery as you go. It will take at least a week to reach the western border - I'm sure you'll have learned much by then." The elf that spoke was one that wore dark brown, clearly one that stayed here in the armory. Fíli looked around for their 'guide' as Ori retrieved her arrow from the target. Gwínir was strapping a sword to his side, his bow and quiver already in place across his back. A second sword rested against the wall beside him, and as he looked up to find a dwarf staring at him, he sighed and picked up the weapon.

"This is also for you," he said, distaste clear in his voice. "I hope you know how generous the king is being."

Fíli shrugged. "I never asked for any of this. You're the one who insisted on bringing us here."

"Oh, the sting of regret." Gwínir turned away with a sigh.

Fíli tested the blade carefully, hoping to find some flaw, some defect of workmanship. If he was honest with himself, the balance was very nearly perfect, and though it was a bit heavier in hand than he was used to, it was nothing he couldn't manage. He nodded begrudgingly and strapped the scabbard to his belt.

Next stop was the kitchens, where they were laden with enough food and water to last them the journey twice over, all neatly bundled and packed into satchels, one to each.

Thus, fed, bathed, armed, and equipped (though not exactly rested), the three set out from the gates, Fíli and Ori tired, but determined, Gwínir forlorn but duty-bound. They proceeded in silence the first hour or so, the elf in the lead, his long strides and sure steps a challenge to keep pace with.

"You don't think we'll have problems with... well, you know what happened last time?" Ori seemed a bit dubious, despite the obvious advantage the two had this time in their passage through Mirkwood. "The air felt so... heavy. Took twice as long to think, and by the time I came to any conclusions, I'd lost them again. Miserable. And at the worst, the hallucinating..." She shuddered.

The elf gave her a curious look, seeming a little sad, and perhaps a touch impressed. "It is not so bad as it was before. The miasma has lifted, and the Shadow in Dol Goldur has been banished into the east. I had not thought dwarves were sensitive enough to the forest to feel its changes."

"How could we miss it?" Fíli remembered the thick, oozy smell, the way his head seemed filled with loam and dirt, the absolute conviction the trees were going to devour them. It had been terrifying. In the distance, so faintly he almost didn't notice it, he thought he heard the sound of a flute. Fear thrilled up his spine and one hand went automatically to the knife at his belt.

If Gwínir noticed, he made no mention of it. "I shouldn't think it will trouble you this time."

Fíli noticed Ori frowning slightly, as though listening intently, and after a moment, she sidled closer to him.

"You hear it, too?"

Ori hesitated, gaze darting off into the trees at what sounded like a startled bird. "I heard something."

Gwínir scoffed over his shoulder. "I hope you won't be like this the entire way. I had no idea dwarves were so skittish."

"Skittish?" Fíli tensed, reaching for his belt knife with an insulted frown and completely forgetting the haunting music. Ori put a hand on his arm and shot him a warning look, which didn't help his temper at all. Why was she always taking _the elf's_ side?

"You'll have to forgive us, Gwínir. Our last trip through Mirkwood didn't end well."

"Show a little faith. I won't lead you astray." The guard's attempt at a soothing tone made the hair on the back of Fíli's neck prickle angrily. The implication that Thorin had led them "astray" was not one the blond would easily forget, even if he _was_  fully aware of his uncle's terrible sense of direction. Dishonoring the dead would win Gwínir no friends among the dwarves.

"We _have_ shown faith," Fíli muttered, but kept quiet after that.

The Elven Road was only barely perceived by the two dwarves, and many times it wasn't evident it existed at all. It was the same one they'd initially followed before, flat, sunken flagstones, many completely buried, and sometimes swallowed up entirely by groves of trees and tangles of vines.

Still, Gwínir seemed to have no trouble remaining on the path, or finding it again if they were forced to detour around an obstacle, and didn't hesitate or falter in his guiding. In fact, he seemed so intent on pressing on that Fíli practically had to beg him for the few ephemeral respites he allowed. In due course, though, they reached a small clearing, and the elf announced they'd be halting for the night.

"Wait." Fíli was genuinely surprised. "Just like that? You're not going to lead us on through the night?" _And drag us by our hair when we collapse from exhaustion?_

"Not much point in that," Gwínir said evenly, dropping his pack. "It's become too dark to see, even for elven eyes, and fire draws the beasts."

"Beasts?" Ori's voice was a frightened whimper. "I thought you said-"

"It's safe if one knows what he is doing," the elf interposed, untying the cord on his pack. "Whatever evil remains lurking in this forest is desperate, and for that reason, harder to predict. I'm not taking any risks."

Fíli snorted and dropped his pack on the ground. It was pitch-dark under the trees, and he was absolutely exhausted. He had a feeling that if he was at the end of his rope, then Ori was likely very close to her limits as well. Part of him was convinced that Gwínir was just toying with them. The rest of him was convinced that this entire forest, nevermind the things living in it, was evil.

"Fee? Could you help me with the tent?" The blond grumbled to himself and turned to help his One with their little shelter. He could tell that the lack of fire bothered her more than she wanted to let on, but said nothing on the subject as she chattered nervously about the weather.

"It seems warmer in here than it was on the heath, doesn't it? I mean, I know it's probably mostly the wind, not things actually being colder, but it really does feel warmer down here. Do you think that'll help the new things grow? It's spring, after all, and Billa was saying just the other day-" Ori stopped, and Fíli heard her let out a soft sigh. Less than half a beat later, Gwínir's voice came out of the darkness to their left.

"Keep quiet, friends. The forest is restless tonight."

Fíli shivered, and thought he heard the swooping keen of a flute in the far distance. Tension vibrated along his nerves, and the dwarf gave a muted hiss.

"First of all, stop ordering us around like foundlings. Second, we're not your friends. I'm just waiting for the chance to put a knife in your ribs." Alright, so perhaps the threat had been a little overkill. He knew that before Ori's angry reproach reached his ears.

"Fíli, stop it. He's only trying to help us. I don't know what's put a knot in your tail, but you had better work it out before morning."

Fíli deflated slightly, but his frown didn't ease. "It's not as though he cares about us, Ori. He just wants us off his hands."

"Well, in that case, I suppose I could just leave you to the spiders and be done with this nonsense." Gwínir seemed particularly blasé now to Fíli's vitriol and distrust. "The King would never find out what had happened to you, and even if he did, what could he do to me?"

"Fine!" Fíli snapped. "Leave us. We don't want your stupid, elvish-"

A surprisingly solid whack to the chest cut him off, and he turned toward Ori, eyes wide. Even in the faint light, he could just make out the long, sturdy branch she'd been using to form the frame of the tent, hovering slightly to his right, poised for another strike.

"I don't care what I have to do to get you to be civil, love. Violence isn't my style, but I'll do what I must. Don't. Say. Another. Word."

Fíli felt a surge of anger, mixed with confusion. This was completely unlike Ori. Why was she so firmly taking the elf's side, and why was she _hitting_ him? He took a breath, opening his mouth to say something he would probably regret, and received a second, harder blow to the chest. That one actually hurt a little. He was stunned.

"Not another word," Ori reminded him firmly. In the faint light (which had no discernible source that Fíli could see) he imagined Gwínir was smirking, and thought he heard a soft chuckle.

"How come _he's_ not getting hit? I'm not the only one-" _crack._ Fíli stumbled back a step, and noted (in a startled, detached sort of way) that the branch Ori was holding wasn't as long as it had been.

"Fee, I'm warning you. If this is the only way to get through to you, I'll keep at it." And he knew she meant the blows would keep getting harder. After a moment's silence, he turned to the pile of canvas that would be a tent, not really sure what else to do. Anger still simmered in his chest, directly under the tingly ache where Ori had belted him with the branch. Was she really choosing the elf's side over her own husband? At least, he imagined she qualified them as married. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she just felt they were engaged. The ache grew worse.

It was Gwínir's fault. The elf was turning Ori against him.

The elf tossed another branch of the correct length onto the pile of canvas, and Fíli made a point of not looking at him, going about setting up the tent in silence. Ori was being ridiculous, and he wasn't going to try to talk any sense into her until she was willing to listen.

"I will take the first watch, as you two obviously need your rest," Gwínir announced when all was finished, and Fíli snapped a twig in half and held his peace.

"Thank-you, Gwínir." Ori spoke through a yawn, ducking beneath the canvas.

Fíli broke one of the halves of the twig in half again, frowning into the darkness from whence the elf's voice had issued.

"Come to bed, love," Ori urged. Fíli, moping, didn't turn, focused on snapping his twigs into increasingly smaller bits. He'd come to bed when he was good and ready, thank-you very much.

It must have been hours, but the light didn't seem to change, and Gwínir didn't move. At least, he didn't hear the elf move. The blond brooded on the new rapport his wife seemed to be establishing with their guide. His mood didn't improve.

Behind him, in the tent, he could hear Ori's soft snores. Even though he was furious and hurt, he loved her little noises, her soft eyes, her steady hands. Fíli sighed.

"Whist."

The sound of the word made him jump, tense at the reminder of the elf's proximity.

"I didn't-"

"Whist, dwarf." Gwínir's voice was urgent. Enough so that Fíli paused before considering his retort. And in that beat of silence, he heard a very quiet, growling hiss.


	15. Dwalin; Weak Link

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Co. make their way across the heath in search of safety and supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki and I wish to extend our most sincere apologies. This update is late, not because the chapter wasn't finished, but because we forgot to update. *sheepish smile* I actually remembered the day BEFORE we were supposed to update, but apparently, the memory of remembering failed to carry through the night. 
> 
> By way of a peace offering, I submit to you this extra-extra long chapter. Over 9000 words of BagginShield goodness, all through the cynical eyes of our favorite hulking bodyguard. (And if any of you make any "over 9000" jokes, I will roll my eyes at you.)

The dull ache in his leg spiked into life with tiny needles of pain creeping up toward his knee with each step. Dwalin wasn't sure which part bothered him more--the fact that it still hurt to walk, or the fact that it had healed so much while they were imprisoned in the Southron's dungeon.

Behind and before him, what remained of their ragged Company straggled out in an uneven line. Thorin and Billa were, predictably, in the lead, though neither seemed to be moving very fast. Behind them walked Balin, beard shorn and sleeves missing, his brawny arms swinging in the dry wind as they walked. Dori and Bofur were just behind him, arguing good-naturedly over the purpose and usefulness of a hat that couldn't keep the ears warm. Dwalin supposed keeping warm (during the day, at least) didn't seem to be much of an issue any longer. And in the rear came Glóin, who seemed to be determined to make an ax out of a piece of sharp, angular shale. It could be done, of course, but such a weapon would hardly be more use than one's fists. Dwalin did nothing to stop him, though. Morale was low enough as it was.

This was the state of things as they shambled toward Laketown, which seemed many hours away, and was apparently getting no closer as they walked.

There was much to ponder, now that the Company was no longer in immediate danger. Dwalin's goal at the outset of the Quest of the Lonely Mountain had been fairly simple: ensure the return of Erebor, and try not to let Thorin get himself and everyone else killed in the process. In a way, then, the quest was still going, except now Smaug was usurped as the obstacle to overcome. Dwalin had to think about it that way. It was too maddening otherwise.

In Laketown they'd return to square one, except this time, the burglar would be with them. From there it seemed they would head to Rivendell and reunite with Kíli, then push on to Ered Luin, there to regroup and make more detailed plans. So simple a journey in words, and so complicated in reality.

He was thoroughly lost to his thoughts when Thorin stiffened suddenly, raising a hand. "Something up ahead," he whispered sharply, motioning for Dwalin to alert the others.

A swift gesture and a word was all it took. Bofur and Dori fell silent, and Glóin caught up as quickly as he could. Soon they were clustered around Thorin, listening intently. Thorin glanced over Billa's head and signed in relatively subtle Iglishmek.

_Two dwarves. South and west._

Dwalin scowled. That was coming from Laketown, and there shouldn't have been any dwarves - or maybe there should have.

 _Nephew?_  he signed. If it was Fíli and Ori, then it could mean that they'd been spotted. A moment of silence as Thorin squinted into the distance. Then he shook his head. With a whispered command, Thorin led the way down into a gulch to their collective left.

Dwalin stayed just behind his king, ready to relay orders. They were without supplies or weapons, and now they were being forced off-course. Thorin was doing his best to keep them alive, but it might well kill them all. Dwalin stumped along in silence, a scowl on his face. So passed the next hour, then two, then three. From one slippery ditch into the next, until the sun began to sink out of sight beyond the steep walls of their chosen path.

"Do you think we lost them?" asked Bofur. Glóin growled an oath. The long silence had left them all tense and jumpy.

Dwalin glanced at the ginger-haired dwarf and nodded toward the gentlest of the slopes around them. He would need to check the land above. As the warrior clambered over broken rocks, Balin sidled closer to his brother. It was still odd to see him without most of his long beard, and Dwalin averted his gaze.

"We're too far east. We'll need to turn back, or stay on the heath without food or water between us."

"I know it, Brother," Dwalin muttered. "We're better off camping here for the night and changing course in the morning. See if ye can talk some sense into Thorin."

Balin nodded, turning away. "Talking sense into Thorin" turned out to be relatively easy this time. Past mistakes, and all that. Pushing on into the gloaming hadn't ended well before, and now was not the time to take any more unnecessary risks.

It wasn't long after everyone had bedded down, though, that someone gave a startled cry. Sounded like Dori, which made sense, since he was on lookout. Dwalin stumbled up in a heartbeat, having only just let his guard down enough to sleep.

"What is it?" Thorin hissed, sitting up quickly, Billa still tucked against his side.

"They've found us."

And even as the words were spoken, the sound of sliding gravel reached them, echoing down the gulch toward them. The dwarves were rousing themselves, circling protectively around Thorin, Dori, and Billa.

"Who is it?" whispered the hobbit, and Dwalin could feel her shifting nervously just behind him. "Not Dain's folk, is it?"

Thorin shushed her, and didn't answer.

The sliding, scraping sounds stopped, then became crunching footsteps.

"You're sure they came this way?"

"This ditch doesn't lead anywhere else."

"But what if we missed them further down?"

"Young'un, by my beard, if you don't let it rest, I'll do something I'll regret."

Dwalin didn't recognize either voice, but noted that one was female, which was a little unnerving. Female warriors were kept as prized bodyguards, not scouts. No dwarrowdam under Dain's command (if there had been any at all) would have been sent after them.

Then the quarreling pair came into sight, and on either side of him, Dwalin could feel Glóin and Balin tense, ready for a fight. The strangers stopped several lengths away, standing in deep shadow.

"Your Majesty?" asked the female voice cautiously.

"Adad?" The second voice, though male, sounded very young. Even as Dwalin was trying to figure it out, Glóin broke away from the others.

"Gimli!"

The tension fell away all at once, eclipsed with relief, as Glóin heartily embraced his son. The others gave the two fiery-haired dwarves some room for a greeting that was quickly becoming emotional, and Thorin turned to the female who had accompanied Gimli.

"You - I remember you. My sister's bodyguard."

"Nikû, Your Highness." The dwarrowdam bowed. "We are relieved to have found you alive, if a bit..." She hesitated, averting her gaze.

Thorin remembered he wasn't looking quite himself, though thankfully, his beard was filling in once more.

"We encountered some trouble. Refugees from Esgaroth, led by the Master of the town's toady." He waved a hand dismissively, as though these "troubles" had been easily dealt with. "And what of Dís... how is she?"

"My lady is... well, Your Majesty." The reply came a little too hesitantly, and Thorin frowned, only to remember that Billa was still attached to his side. Perhaps Nikû didn't trust the little halfling? With a faint sigh, he gave Billa a gentle squeeze.

"Why don't you go rest, love? I'll come join you in just a minute."

Billa tilted her head back to look up at him, brow furrowed unhappily. "Why? Surely whatever she has to say can be said to both of us."

Suppressing a tiny spike of frustration, Thorin gave his One a little push. "Dís isn't your sister. I'd like a moment, love." This time, though she pouted, the hobbit moved off, taking a seat beside Dori on a large, flat rock. He could see. Nikû watching her, but pretended not to notice. It was the dwarrowdam's job to be vigilant.

"Well? What news of the Mountain?"

"I think, begging your pardon, Your Majesty, you'll be more interested in the news from Laketown. Gimli and I have only just come from there, and tidings are troubling indeed. Word is that you and your Company are dead, lost to orcs or similar ilk on the heath."

If this news perturbed him, Thorin didn't let on. "And Fíli... He's alright? He's still there?"

Nikû shook her head. "Left shortly before we arrived. Went looking for you, according to the Dragonslayer."

In the dim light, Thorin's sudden loss of pallor likely went unnoticed. "You've found no sign of him? Of _them?_ "

"Not so much as a footprint." Nikû's tone was grim. She disliked bringing such news. "Of course, our priority was finding you, per Princess Dís' orders. It's far easier for a pair to go unnoticed than a group this size."

She exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Dwalin, who seemed to regard her with equal wariness, despite all appearances of good faith. "Seems you're heading back toward the lake."

Thorin quickly filled her in on the Company's plans, after which Gimli rejoined her, Glóin at his side, grinning from ear to ear.

"We have a message from the princess," the young dwarf reported softly. "She had us memorize it."

Thorin waited patiently as they exchanged and glance, and when Gimli spoke again, there was a sense of gravity to his words.

"The Old Road is being watched. Ered Luin is loyal, but not all that come by that way will bear the seal. Dain keeps the old Raven Treaties, they are his eyes on the wind. Seek what help you trust and return when you are strong."

The message, thought Thorin ruefully, was cryptic and fragmented. A good measure to take in case of subterfuge, but not as clear as he would have liked.

"What more can you tell me of the goings on in the Mountain?" Thorin was distracted, even as he asked. If the Old Forest Road was being watched, then it would be wise to take an alternative route... but what of Fíli and Ori? Which direction had they gone? Two dwarves traveling alone, and only one of them a warrior; they would be very vulnerable.

"The Mountain was preparing for a celebration when we left, and most were preoccupied that way," admitted Nikû, seemingly reluctant to divulge the information.

"Celebration? Of what?"

"The engagement of Princess Dís and the king."

Dwalin could almost see the chill working its way up Thorin's spine. They all remembered what Billa had said in the dungeons, that Dís was "wooing Dain," evidently in some bid to undermine him. At least... that was the assumption. How could they know for certain?

Thorin seemed to be taking a moment to process this news. When he spoke, his voice was full of disgusted incredulity. "My sister... is marrying Dain?"

Nikû nodded. "So it would appear, Your Highness."

"But... why?"

"Yer sister's no fool, Thorin," Dwalin put in, his voice discreet. It wasn't that he didn't think the others could be trusted with such knowledge; it simply didn't seem proper to discuss so openly the royals' personal affairs. "She knows what she does, I'll warrant."

"But to marry _Dain_..." Thorin spat the name venomously. "Was there no alternative?"

Nikû shook her head slowly, looking less content than ever. Dwalin wondered briefly if she had argued with Dís the way he had with Thorin over so many of his less wise decisions.  

"The princess seemed adamant that this was the only effective course, and I... trust her." This was clearly not an easy thing for her to say, and the warrior felt a tiny surge of respect for this dwarrowdam. It took strength to know one's place as a servant, no matter how elevated they could be.

"This is... she can't _do_ that! I won't allow it!" Thorin fumed for a long minute, and Dwalin sighed.

"There's naught we can do about it now, Thorin. The faster we get to Ered Luin, the sooner we can-"

"Can _what?_ By then, it'll be too late."

"She's gettin' married, not dyin'. Trust Dís to 'andle 'er own affairs."

Thorin seemed to relent. Dwalin saw his fists loosen slightly, his shoulders slumping as he turned his back on them. "I've little choice."

As always, Thorin would need time. His inability to protect his own sister was clearly very painful, if that was indeed the main source of his anger.

Dwalin watched as he stalked away toward the wall of the gulch, and Billa slipped off her rock to scurry after him. At least now he had his burglar; that was an improvement.

Dwalin turned back to Nikû. "Seems I'll have to thank ye for yer report. Thorin's not in the mood. Ye'll come along with us to Laketown, then?"

Nikû shook her head slightly. "We can't go to Laketown. Gimli and I just came from there." She nodded to the dwarrow, who puffed out his chest proudly when he realized the female was waiting for him to sum up their reasons for avoiding Esgaroth.

"Laketown's thick with dwarves right now--getting ready for the party. Since the Lakemen get shipments directly from the Elves, the king doesn't have to deal with them and they can get the goods all the same."

Dwalin felt a stab of consternation. This could be a real problem. "We need supplies and weapons. Won't get far wit'out one or th' other."

"You'll be sitting hens if you go to Laketown," Nikû insisted, nodding emphatically. "Your next best option, since the Forest Road is out, is," here she began to look a bit uncomfortable, "Gondor."

Dwalin twitched. "Gondor?" He shook his head, chuckling grimly. "Good luck convincin' Thorin o' that."

Glóin and the others had withdrawn slightly, but it was clear they were still listening intently. Any decisions made would impact them just as much as they did Thorin. Gimli drew Dwalin's gaze.

"It's no more ridiculous than trying to go on to Laketown. If it's supplies and weapons you need, you're going to have to look elsewhere."

This was going to be even worse that trailing Thorin all over the world of Men, from one forge to the next. Dwalin sighed.

"So are ye comin' with us or not?"

"Aye, we're coming." Nikû's tone was as grim as her expression. "I'm to send word to the princess as soon as we reach Ered Luin, or return to Erebor if His Majesty dies."

"'e won't die. Not if I 'ave anything to do wit' it."

The night seemed much longer than any before it. All was explained to Thorin, who balked at the idea of going into Gondor. Still, by dawn he was resigned to the idea, and had already set Glóin and Gimli to gathering supplies as they traveled, for making weapons. They would need a means to hunt, if nothing else.

Glóin was radiant with fatherly pride, and couldn't boast enough of his son's tracking abilities and woodcraft. The others tolerated it largely in silence. At least _someone_ was in good spirits.

Gimli and Glóin eventually found a suitable stick of green wood (not nearly as easy a task as it sounded) and carved it down until the limber ends were uniform. Nikû had a length of twine amongst her supplies which was used for the string, and soon a functional if not exactly highly wrought bow was presented to Thorin, as well as a few sad-looking arrows. They had no heads, obviously, and their fletchings were fashioned from bits of fur from Glóin's boots. They'd have to do.

Thorin nodded his thanks, testing the draw weight. As the only one in the Company skilled in archery (a somewhat dubious talent, as far as dwarves were concerned), it fell to him to bring down whatever game they might encounter along the way.

"Good." He stowed the arrows in a cloth bag Dori had quickly cobbled together from some scraps and slung it over his shoulder. "Move out."

"Good," muttered Dori, and Dwalin cocked an eyebrow at him as they walked. "Good. Humph. I'd like to see someone else put together a workable bag with one good hand."

The warrior shook his head and took his accustomed place at Thorin's shoulder. The halfling, he noticed, was missing, and when he glanced about, he found her walking beside Gimli, listening to him as he talked about something or other.

"Yer halfling's been awful quiet," he grunted, attracting Thorin's attention. The moody dwarf had been staring off into the distance again. "Should I be lookin' out fer mischief?"

"I doubt it." Thorin's reply was quiet, barely audible over the rustle of movement, the thudding tramp of boots. He sighed, throwing a quick glance back at Billa. "She'll come around, I think, but it... leaves a mark. An experience like that."

Dwalin's gaze drifted uncomfortably to the warren of red lines on Thorin's neck, just faintly visible over the rumpled collar of his tunic. That was, perhaps, taking things a bit too literally.

Even as he looked away from Thorin's neck, Dwalin found his gaze dragged reluctantly to his brother. Balin's beard was slower to recover than Thorin's, and the sharp angles of Thorin's crest were clearly visible over the ragged neck of his tunic. Neither of them had hair long enough to cover the shameful marks, and the sight of them made even Dwalin feel uncomfortable. Maybe a little queasy.

Slaves. They'd been marked as slaves.

When he tore his eyes away from Balin, he found his king studying him, and there was such haunting grief in those blue eyes, he couldn't bear it. Dwalin looked away, focusing instead on the ache in his leg. He himself had pressed the branding iron to Thorin's back. Sympathetic pain flared in his shoulder.

"What's with all these gloomy faces?" Billa's voice was falsely cheery, and the warrior twitched away from her. How was it that he _never heard her coming?_ It was enough to drive him mad. "We're free to wander under the sky again - that's something worth smiling about, isn't it?"

Dwalin scoffed lightly, but amended his tune when Thorin glanced at him again with a distinctly warning look. "If ye say so," the hulking dwarf grunted appeasingly.

Thorin, though, forced a smile, which made Dwalin feel passingly... guilty. The dwarf king ran a hand through Billa's mussed and tangled curls, and Dwalin was forced to avert his gaze again when he caught sight of the red, swollen cuts lacing around Thorin's wrists.

Sure, they were all out "under the sky," as Billa put it. But all these reminders - it wasn't so easy to put such things behind them.

Still, it seemed that the hobbit was determined to be cheerful, and she proceeded to chatter about what she liked best - food. Dwalin tried not to roll his eyes or groan. Obvious signs of displeasure would be taken as an insult, if he was any judge of Thorin's mood. Listening to the meal Billa wished she could cook, however, only made him more aware of the ravenous hunger pangs vibrating through his body.

"Billa," moaned Bofur, after close to a half hour of Billa's mouth-watering descriptions of succulent ham, rich cheeses and fresh-baked bread, among a number of other foods. "Look, love, I'm sure this is very nice, but could ye not do it out loud? Me stomach's eatin' itself from th' inside."

Billa grimaced apologetically. "Sorry. I- I guess I just... got a bit carried away."

The Company was silent after that, mostly. Glóin seemed to have tired himself out with exuberance, and his voice only occasionally rose above conversational tones as he questioned his son on what had transpired in Ered Luin in his absence.

Dwalin turned his attention to their surroundings. The heath wasn't entirely devoid of life. Small scrubby bushes seemed to have taken over in the deficit of trees, and now with the onset of spring, patches of green were beginning to fill in the gaps in the bare, sandy soil. It was a heartening thing, really, after the miles of miles of rock and shale. At least it meant there was a chance they'd encounter some game - something they desperately needed.

Of course, with Glóin chattering on and on, it was doubtful they'd ever see anything at all.

Dwalin was aware, by the time they stopped, that he was limping, and obviously. It irked him that he couldn't seem to hide it, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, if he still had a crutch... but no. There was no cause to make himself look weaker still, just to avoid limping.

They set up camp in a little dell, and even dared to risk a small fire. The rations Gimli and Nikû had brought were spread very thin among them, and so, too, were the blankets. The result was that they slept in a large, hungry pile, with Thorin and his Burglar at its center.

Dawn hadn't yet come when Nikû, had taken the last watch of the night, woke them with a soft hiss. Dwalin fumbled for his ax before remembering he had nothing but a sturdy branch for a weapon, and rolled to his feet. The others were coming awake also. Thorin, Glóin, and Gimli were the most alert, besides himself.  

"Listen," Nikû whispered, and they all held their breath. In the distance, the bark of a dog, and a faint, regular crunching that might have been footsteps. "We're being followed."

Thorin signaled to Dwalin. "Get everyone on their feet. Don't waste any time."

Tracking dogs. That meant no hiding, and without weapons, they had but one option. Dwalin nodded, moving to shake Dori and Balin awake. Thorin pulled Billa up, wrapping her in a blanket. The hobbit looked terrified, but said nothing.

They had few supplies to gather outside of blankets, which in this case was fortunate, and within half a minute, all were on their feet again and moving quickly out of the dell. They didn't bother burying the smoldering embers of the fire; there was no hiding the fact they'd been there.

It was cold, dark, and grueling, the trek through the night, quick as they could sustain, Thorin in the lead, Dwalin in the rear. His leg was smarting something awful, but he'd not have complained - not even if it came to hopping on his remaining foot the rest of the journey. Still, he preferred it didn't come to that.

Whoever was tracking them - and to whatever end - there was a certain shared resolve none had carried before. Dwalin could sense it, clear as anything he'd ever known to be true. They would rather die than go back to the prison from whence they'd flown.

Their pursuer must have been moving slowly, though Dwalin wasn't sure why, because the sound of the dog's barking faded into the distance behind them. With the faint light of the rising sun ahead of them, they kept on the move for nearly an hour, grey blending into silver, then blue, then pink on the horizon.

Ahead, there was a loud clatter, as of a loose rock kicked across the ground. From a low bush there burst a large bird, calling shrilly into the still morning air. Dwalin had only just reached for his belt when the bird fell to the earth with a strange squeak of surprise. It didn't rise again.

Just in front of him, Gimli was muttering a soft oath, apparently still rather surprised by the bird's appearance. Nikû moved forward and pulled a short knife from the animal's breast.

"Lucky shot," she commented, almost ruefully. "I thought for sure I'd have missed. It was a sloppy throw."

Thorin acknowledged her feat (lucky or not) with a nod, and Dwalin himself couldn't help but be impressed. She had finely developed instincts, though he supposed it wasn't out of keeping with her natural duties. She _was_ Lady Dís' personal bodyguard.

"Give it to Bofur," Thorin instructed softly, indicating the bird. He was exhausted and trying to hide it, a look all-too-familiar to Dwalin now.

Bofur wasn't a cook by any means, but he knew enough to prepare game birds.

Not that that was a high priority at the moment, but with starvation the second highest cause of ruin on their immediate horizon, it wouldn't do to waste what might be their final meal.

"Move on," Thorin urged, scooping the drooping Billa back up into his arms again. The hobbit simply wasn't as able to keep up as she had been, and now was no time to lag behind. Whether Thorin had other reasons for his sudden coddling of his burglar wasn't immediately clear, and Dwalin didn't feel like speculating. To be honest, the whole burglar situation had made him uncomfortable from the start, and having her along now wasn't helping his feelings on the matter any.

They were forced to stop when the sun heaved itself over the horizon at long last. As Nikû pointed out, their pursuer would be able to see them in the daylight, and hiding in a gulch or dell would serve to better throw the men off their trail. In addition, though no one said a word about it, Thorin seemed on the verge of collapse. He had been exhausted to begin with, and then he had taken to carrying Billa when the hobbit could no longer keep up with them. Bofur settled to pluck feathers from the bird (which turned out to be some form of smallish turkey) and cook it as best he could.

"Keep the fire small, and dig a pit for it." Thorin leaned down toward the kneeling miner. "We can't afford to give ourselves away again."

Dwalin hemmed warily. "There'll be smoke, however ya hide the flames."

"We can't go on without a meal," Bofur pointed out.

"If they were hungry enough, they'd eat it, cooked or not." Dwalin crossed his arms. Too many weaklings amongst this lot.

Billa approached, yawning tiredly. "Poor thing." Dwalin realized she was talking about the bird, now half-plucked, lying in a small reddish puddle with its tongue lolling out. He might have rolled his eyes if Thorin hadn't been watching.

"You can mourn it _after_ we're out of imminent danger," the dwarf king said tersely, turning away. That reaction surprised even Dwalin.

He watched as the hobbit shot her mate an affronted look. "There's nothing wrong with showing a little sympathy-" Falling silent at Thorin's sharp glance, Billa looked away. Dwalin shook his head slightly. Trouble in paradise, as the saying went. Touching Thorin's shoulder, he nudged the dwarf king pointedly toward the bags, where the blankets were.

"I'll take first watch." He said no more as he limped toward the lip of the dell. If Thorin was grateful, Dwalin didn't look back to see it.

The day crawled along, thankfully free of any signs of their pursuers. Dwalin began to wonder if perhaps the dog _hadn't_ been tracking them after all. Couldn't it just as easily have been travelers on their way to Erebor? The edge of panic dulled as the hours wore on, and the Company took a small meal and some much-needed rest.

Apart from the eyes of the others, Dwalin finally took stock of his own situation. His leg was becoming a problem, and they didn't need any more of those right now. Inspecting the join between the stump of his leg and the peg, he found that while there was no obvious sign of injury, the skin was reddened and slightly swollen. Possibly a sign of overuse that could be remedied with rest, but they hardly had time for any extended respite.

It rankled at him, this. This... weakness. He'd never play the invalid, but having to admit he needed anything - especially special treatment? Never. It ran contrary to every fiber of his being.

For one reason or another, he hadn't expected anyone to join him. When Glóin's boy, Gimli, sat down on the ledge near him, Dwalin barely swallowed an ill-tempered growl. Privacy was something he was beginning to hoard jealously.

Surprisingly, though, the dwarrow said nothing. He just sat, scanning the heath with alert brown eyes. At length, he pulled a short clay pipe from within his tunic, packed and lit it. The way his hands moved, steady and deft told the warrior that this was something the youth did often. Dwalin's own pipe had been confiscated by Alfrid's men, and he felt the loss keenly.

"You should try to get some sleep." Gimli didn't look at him as he spoke. Dwalin bristled.

"I'll be the one to decide that."

"Just an offer," the young dwarf said, shrugging. "Didn't mean no offense."

Dwalin said nothing. Silence ensued for a good minute.

"Pipe?" Gimli asked, finally, wiping off the tip of the stem with his sleeve. He proffered it to Dwalin, who glanced at it a moment before accepting it wordlessly. He wasn't much for courtesy at any rate, and if the dwarrow was looking for tokens of gratitude, he'd have to seek elsewhere.

"So, uh, you think we'll make it all the way to Gondor?" Dwalin highly suspected the question was simply an attempt at making conversation.

Leaving it unanswered seemed like a tacit 'no,' so Dwalin sighed, smoke streaming from his nostrils and into his beard. "We'll make it, lad. One way or another."

Gimli seemed to understand that wasn't permission to keep talking. As the warrior wiped off the pipe stem and handed it back, the lad shook his ginger head and rubbed his jaw. Really, he was barely younger than Kili. His beard was still scant, though it had real promise.

The silence settled between them, like a cat making itself comfortable in the sun. The youth wasn't as irritating as he might have been. Had a lot of his father in him.

"I want... to be useful." Gimli's voice was quiet and rough. "Adad, he... expects me to be something great. I don't know if I _can._ "

"Ye'll be what ye'll be." Dwalin grunted dismissively. "Yer father taught ye well enough, it seems."

Gimli puffed at the pipe. "I guess."

After that, conversation died away, for which Dwalin was thankful. The quiet companionship, the hulking dwarf was forced to admit to himself, wasn't altogether... unpleasant.

Reminded him of his days on the road with Thorin. Sometimes they went weeks without speaking more than a few words here and there to each other, and that was alright. He missed that silent camaraderie. Words got in the way, made things awkward.

At length, Dwalin sighed, glancing at the lad. "Seems yer determined." He eased himself to his feet, hiding a wince. "I'll have Bofur relieve ye in an hour."

He limped down the slope into the dell without looking back at the dwarrow. He was a curious lad, to be sure, and had a good measure of emotional... stuff. It was the Firebeard blood in him, from his mother's side, Dwalin was sure. Still, he was a decent fellow, and had the makings of a warrior, if he kept himself under control.

With a grunt, the hulking dwarf nudged Dori for a space on the least populated blanket. Dori mumbled unhappily, but rolled aside. Dwalin settled best he could, and found even the hard, uneven ground was remarkably... comfortable.

It seemed moments later that the hard toecap of a boot nudged him awake, and Dwalin shot up, feeling aberrantly... contrite. Thorin had already moved off again, and it was clear everyone else was already awake and largely packed up. The sun had fallen behind the edge of the dell; full dark would be upon them soon, and it wouldn't do to delay navigation until there was no longer adequate light to guide them.

Heaving himself to his feet, the hulking dwarf scooped up his blanket, shook it out, and rolled it up, tossing it to Bofur, who had the pack.

Thorin was evidently conferring with Balin in soft tones, and as Dwalin approached them, Thorin's gaze fell upon him briefly. He looked a little better rested, but lurking beneath the surface was the same strain and desperation as before.

"Can we continue like this?" Balin looked concerned, but kept his voice quiet and steady. "We've no rations, and no certainty of finding food any time soon. The further we go into the wild, the more dire it will become."

"There is risk involved whatever we do now," Thorin said, frowning, arms folded before him. "Going back is no less dangerous than going on."

There was a slight pause, and Thorin's blue eyes shifted to rest on him. "What think you, Dwalin?"

The warrior shifted, suppressing a wince as his leg reminded him of the rest it wouldn't be getting. "Goin' back wouldn't do a bit o' good. I say we press on, and make what time we can."

"Most of us are injured," Balin pointed out, though he said nothing of one of the injured being Thorin himself. A smart decision, Dwalin thought. "Wouldn't it be wiser to take what rest the night can give, and press on in the morning?"

"In the mornin' our bellies will be as empty as the heath, and we'll have naught to put in 'em." Dwalin thought, as both of his companions looked at him, that perhaps that had been saying a bit too much. It was the truth, however, and he wasn't taking it back. "There's bound to be a village on the other side of the River. If we can make it that far, then we've a chance. More than the chance we'd have if we turned back now. Nothin's waitin' fer us in Laketown but Dain's men an' a load o' trouble."

Balin was forced to concede, and his brother tried not to notice him reaching to stroke the beard that was no longer nearly as long as his hand seemed to think it was. "Let's just hope we run into some luck within the next day or so. We'll be doing pretty poorly by then if we don't."

Thorin slanted a look at Billa that Dwalin couldn't interpret. Fear? Regret? Leading others was not an enviable position, however coveted it might be by those who saw only its benefits. Upon Thorin's shoulders rested the weight of the Company's imminent doom, and Dwalin could sense it in his every movement and expression.

"Move out," the dwarf king growled tensely, striding away toward the rim of the dell, Billa and the others scrambling to catch up.

Thorin was all mission now, and unlikely to be much for courtesy until the strain was eased. Dwalin only hoped they lasted long enough to see it.

The day faded, and swift strides turned to hasty, fumbling steps. They pressed on until past full dark, then paused for a short rest. It didn't take much to convince Thorin that traveling by night, at least until they were off the heath, would be the wisest choice. In the far distance, a dog began to bay, and that was enough to set the Company into motion again.

The burglar was once again a weak link. She struggled to keep up with their longer strides and surer footing, being unable to see in the dark as they could, and eventually needed to be carried again. After she was settled on Dori's back, they pushed on into the night, through the wee hours and into the deepest darkness of pre-dawn.

"We should stop, at least for a couple hours," urged Balin, and his brother frowned when the grandfatherly gaze rested ever so briefly on the wretched peg leg. As determined as he was, he couldn't mask the increasingly obvious limp, which making a strong comeback after the previous day's insufficient rest.

"The River's not that much further," Dwalin countered. "We can see it ahead. Let's push on, and stop on the banks. We can find a crossing tomorrow, after we sleep."

Even in the near-complete darkness, Thorin was looked haggard. The rest didn't look much better. One foot in front of the other, on and on. Frost on noses and beards and eyebrows.

"We push on," growled Thorin stubbornly, and paused to see Billa transferred to Glóin's broad back. The hobbit was mostly asleep, a limp bundle wrapped in an oversized coat.

"Thorin?" she mumbled, her cheek against Glóin's shoulder. "S'it time fer breakfas'?"

A troubled look crept across Thorin's already dour face, but he said nothing.

An hour more they moved at an uneven jog before at last the river's broad, flat expanse spread out before them, glowing in the diffuse moonlight. Relief was palpable, and it wasn't much longer before they'd reached the gently sloping banks. Water wouldn't exactly ease their hunger, but it might take the edge off it. That seemed to be the consensus anyway, as most of the group immediately dropped their various burdens, and moved, panting, down to have their fill of the cold, rushing water.

Dwalin held back, keeping watch. It wouldn't do to be caught unawares while everyone was distracted. Thorin remained behind, too, for the moment, occupied with one of the "burdens" that had been left behind. Ah. That was why.

Billa seemed to be dry heaving, arms crossed over her stomach. Thorin held her shoulders, steadying her. The hulking dwarf couldn't imagine why she'd be sick. They hadn't eaten anything in... what was it now? A day?

Dwalin turned away, his curiosity more than sated. Weaklings. They'd be the undoing of the Company, of that he was now sure.

The barest hint of grey along the horizon was the only sign that the night wouldn't continue forever. As Dwalin stumped unevenly down to the sparse grass that had been selected as their camp, he tuned in to the low murmurs of conversation from the others.

"Crossing the river won't be easy," grunted Glóin, gesturing with his son's canteen. "We've no boat, no wood to make a raft with, and if I remember right, the hobbit can't swim."

"Whether it's hard or not is a moot point," replied Nikû cooly, cleaning her knives meticulously. "We'll cross the river, regardless of the difficulty. We are dwarves." She was clearly less worn than the others, having been better fed and better rested in the recent past. Glóin made a reluctant sound of agreement, taking another long drink before passing the canteen off to Bofur, who had been sitting motionless beside him.

"There's truth in that."

"Suppose ya got a plan, then, Miss Nikû?" Bofur's voice was unusually subdued, but there was an odd note in it, as though he were trying too hard to express something and it had come off a little strangely.

"Plans can wait." Nikû sheathed her knives. "Mister Dwalin, I assume you'll be taking last watch. I believe I should take the first." Her manner was brisk, and Dwalin appreciated the lack of unnecessary smalltalk involved in speaking with her.

"Aye." He nodded. "Thorin may wish to move on sooner than later. Best ye wake me in an hour, two at most."

"Brother, you need more than that." Balin's tone bespoke deep concern. "You can't function on only an hour or two of sleep!"

"I know my limits." Dwalin's curt tone was meant to leave no hope that Balin could prevail upon him, but the older dwarf persisted.

"Yes, but you're too stubborn to respect them." Balin knelt next to his brother, now eye to eye with him. "The last thing you want is to become a burden on this Company, but that's just what you'll be if you don't have the good sense to take rest while you can."

The old dwarf's words smacked of good sense, and it stung. Dwalin scowled, but hadn't yet formed a proper reply when Nikû spoke again.

"We'll be most likely to be seen between midmorning and noon, if any of the Iron Hills dwarves are following the River Anduin to their home. Our camp is out of sight of the water - I would suggest we move when the sun has reached its zenith. That should give us plenty of time to rest and hunt as needed."

"Not up to me," Dwalin muttered, shoving himself to his feet. There was little point in belaboring the subject. "Wake me when ye think it's best." He had a feeling he'd wake on his own before they roused him.

Thorin and Billa were already in the "sleeping pile," the halfling curled against the dwarf king's side, snoring softly. Thorin's eyes were open, though, and tracked Dwalin as he wrestled half of a blanket from underneath Gimli.

"You're limping."

"Aye." Dwalin's whispered reply betrayed some amount of shame. "What of it?"

There was a short pause then, Thorin's eyes shining like ice in the starlight.

"How bad is it?"

It wasn't concern that prompted the dwarf king to ask, and Dwalin knew it too well to lie. This was Thorin as a leader, feeling out the condition of the Company and planning for tomorrow. That didn't make the answer any easier to give. With a soft grunt, the warrior succeeded in freeing the blanket and nudged Gimli aside so he could take up a position nearer to Thorin. Better to guard him, better to speak.

"It aches. Some swelling, and walking hurts. Nothing permanent." He tried to inject gruff confidence into his words, but a whisper could only hold so much. As he spread the blanket over the young dwarf and himself, he took care not to look at his king. Thorin would be disappointed, he knew, and if they had to slow down because of him, then it would be he, Dwalin, bearing the guilt of their eventual deaths.

"I am not so sure." Thorin shifted slightly beside him. A brief pause. "Have you tried soaking it? The cold water might help with the swelling."

Dwalin grunted a negative. "Woulda drawn attention."

"Ah." Thorin's voice took on a knowing quality. "And you wish no one to know of your difficulty until it's too late."

Dwalin swallowed a frustrated growl with some difficulty. Was everyone determined to make him as weak as the rest of them? Thorin continued softly, voice just barely above a whisper as he spoke over the sleeping hobbit's head.

"When you wake for your watch, you'll soak that leg. And if it gives you trouble tomorrow, you'll let me know. I need you as capable as possible, now more than ever."

These weren't requests, they were orders. As much as it rankled at the brawny dwarf's pride, he would follow Thorin's orders, as a soldier should.

"Yes, sir," he muttered reluctantly.

Turning away, he rested his head on his elbow and tried to occupy his mind with planning. The river was yet to be crossed, and food yet to be found. Troubling as their plight was, and as frantic as his body was becoming with hunger, sleep came surprisingly easy.

As before, it seemed mere moments later that someone was whispering his name. The bodyguard?

Jolting upright, as ever seemed to be his wont when caught off guard, he scanned the starlit darkness for the speaker. Nowhere in sight. That puzzled him, and even as he shivered slightly against the cold night, chilled by the damp air drifting up from the river, he checked the snoring lumps around him. Everyone was accounted for. All but one.

"Right here," said the voice again, and Dwalin started. Somehow, he'd missed her there at first glance, a few feet away and standing perfectly still. "You asked for two hours, and I gave you four. Seemed a fair compromise."

Dwalin sat up cautiously, wondering at the dwarrowdam's motivation. Surely she was tired as well. As he stood, he noticed that she held a small ax, which she proffered as he drew closer.

"Gimli agreed to take the next watch if we stayed that long." Her voice was still lowered to a whisper, easier to hear now that he was closer. Dwalin took the ax and nodded slightly, though he had no intention of waking the dwarrow before he consulted Thorin. The spare light of false dawn, now four hours past, was giving way to true dawn, the misty grey at the horizon just barely turning silver, like stars dissolving into the distant, unseen lands.

With a grunt of acknowledgement, he turned toward the river, grateful for the dwarrowdam's efficiency of speech, as well as the extra hours she'd allowed him. Even if he'd have never admitted to either.

The glint of metal in his peripheral vision drew his attention back to her momentarily, and he realized she'd already settled on the ground a ways off from the others and seemed to be resuming work on some sort of wire bending. He was sure he hadn't the faintest idea what she was doing, but if she was foregoing sleep so as to continue working on it, it had to be more than something to busy her hands. And without the use of any tools. There was no doubt as to the strength of her fingers, though the smaller, daintier size of her hands certainly wouldn't have suggested that. When she paused to look up at him, he moved off quickly, mildly annoyed he'd been caught staring.

The morning dawned clear and golden, light rippling on each eddy and line of the gentle current, and Dwalin sat on a mossy stone at the river's edge, ax across his lap, straining his eyes over the newly illumined landscape. Nothing much of note back the way they'd come; evenly sloping land, mostly drab grey-brown with a few spots of bright green, excepting the richer turf and reeds directly up the banks. As he swept his gaze across the wide watery expanse, though, squinting against the brightly glinting water, he noticed something... off. A haze had settled over the far bank, at least half a league downriver.

He might've mistaken it for mist if it weren't concentrated so heavily in one spot. There was really only one thing it could be, and he hoped he wasn't wrong about that.

Staggering up, he worked hard to suppress his limp as he moved quickly to where Thorin was already stirring and evidently trying to extricate himself from his halfling without waking her.

"A village, across the Anduin." Dwalin's voice was low, but energized. "Half a league off, maybe more."

It looked almost as though Thorin had shed a heavy skin. Hope lit in his eyes, and for a moment, he paused his efforts to stand. Dwalin saw his gaze drop to the dratted peg leg, and the hope was obscured once more by grim concern. Thorin finally succeeded in getting free by taking his coat off and letting Billa hold it while he stood.

"You didn't soak your leg," he whispered sternly. "Go get that thing in the water. I'll rouse the others."

With a quick nod, Dwalin turned about and hobbled down toward the bank again. Evidently he _hadn't_ gotten away with it. Pushing his way past some of the taller reeds, he found a water-worn log, straddled it, and eased his peg leg into the water until the bitingly cold ripples were up almost to his knee. He winced, holding the leg of his trousers up to keep it from becoming damp. His leg grew numb, sort of... tingly. He wasn't sure if this was good or not, only that it no longer ached as much.

The minutes passed slowly as he listened to the voices of the others discussing plans and arguing over what was to be done now that diplomacy was suddenly more important than fleeing. Nikû mentioned she'd made a basic hook from a ring of mail that could be used for fishing, if it came to that, and Dwalin nodded to himself. Sensible. He should've thought of that himself.

When he returned to the others, most regarded him with little interest, though his brother's gaze lingered on him longer than he'd have liked. The topic had progressed, it seemed, to what story they would tell the people of the village.

"We could say we're traveling tradesman, maybe," Dori suggested. "Barely stretching the truth, that. We've been reduced to little more."

"Tradesmen who don't got no goods?" Bofur pointed out with a frown. "How're we gonna explain that?"

"Bandits." Dori sounded as though he thought the miner somewhat unintelligent for not thinking of that on his own, but Bofur was two steps ahead of him.

"Alright, so we're tradesmen, travelin' away from Erebor with our goods when we're ambushed by bandits and we decide ta press on an' starve rather than turn around an' go back?"

Silence greeted the pessimistic explanation. After a moment, Thorin shook his head.

"We'll not be able to make it look innocent. We might as well claim to be mercenaries and let them think what they will of why we're out here."

"That would work best if just a couple of you went in to get supplies and the rest of us waited." Dwalin was mildly surprised to hear Billa's voice from the folds of Thorin's coat, which looked as though it might have just been crumpled on the stone beside him. The hobbit did, however, have a decent point. "Thorin's the most likely to be recognized. If Glóin and Gimli went into the village and bartered for supplies, I doubt anyone would think twice about them."

"Maybe." Balin seemed a bit hesitant. "And what if these people have been warned of 'suspicious dwarves'? What if they're in league with the men who captured us?"

"It's a risk we'll have to take."

Glóin spoke up. "I'd be willin' to go. But my son speaks for himself now."

"Of course I'm going!" Gimli's response was a bit too eager, maybe, but his father nonetheless beamed with pride.

"It's settled, then." Thorin threw an uncertain glance at the river. "All that remains, then, is deciding where to cross over and how."

Dwalin eased himself onto a small boulder and nodded toward the dwarf king. "If there's a village, likely as not there's a crossing. A ford, or a ferry. We'd have to be closer to be sure, but it's safer than swimming." He noted that Thorin's coat seemed to contract and shiver slightly. Right. Billa couldn't swim.

"And if they see us crossing?" Balin pressed. "All of us? If we cross near the village, they'll know there's more of us than two."

"And ye'd prefer to brave the river then, brother?" Dwalin turned a meaningful glance upon the wide expanse behind them. "Up fer a brisk morning swim?"

"It won't be pleasant, I admit..." Balin hesitated, looking at the others expectantly, as though he hoped they'd support him. None of them seemed very keen. Dori looked particularly averse.

"What if we waited until dark? They wouldn't see us crossing. Unless they had sentries, anyway."

"It wouldn't matter. They could see us all cross and know there's a group of mercenaries that Gimli and Glóin are buying supplies for." The hobbit poked her head out of the coat and squinted at them. "It only makes sense."

"We'll cross near the village, then." Having evidently solidified their course of action, Thorin strode over to Billa and helped her out of the coat.

"If there _is_ a crossing," Bofur murmured, straightening his now very worn and mottled hat. "Might as likely be they rely on boats only."

"Not like you to be so contrary," Dori put in.

Bofur muttered something under his breath that Dwalin didn't catch. Dori frowned at him, but said nothing.

Thorin was already moving off, setting a rather brisk pace, his burglar at his heels, struggling to keep up with him.

_Give it five minutes, and he'll be carryin' 'er._

True to form, the halfling started lagging behind after only a few minutes, but Thorin surprised Dwalin by not picking her up and toting her along like a pack. Instead, the dwarf put an arm around her shoulders and kept her upright as they moved swiftly along, keeping her moving even when she tripped or stumbled.

Their good fortune held. Upon sighting the first of the sod huts on the other side of the river, it became apparent that there was a shallow rocky ford not far from the village. Some of the women were down at the water with their laundry already, and the Company's spirits improved with every stride. Dori was the one that suggested having Nikû carry Billa, as though she were a dwarrow, since she couldn't pass as a grown dwarf, and her size made her notable in their midst.

"They'll notice her no matter what," muttered Bofur. "Might as well claim she's a human child."

"If you don't have anything useful to say, keep your mouth shut."

"Yer bickerin' like an old married couple." Dwalin couldn't keep the frustrated growl from his tone. "Pipe down an' let's keep movin'."

The water was swift and icy, but the crossing was relatively easy, and it numbed Dwalin's leg again, which was a bonus.

The women doing laundry watched them pass, but didn't seem overly concerned. It was obvious they'd had dealings with dwarves in the past. On the far bank, Glóin and Gimli took what minimal coinage they had (provided by Nikû) and set off for the town, bearing instructions to be cordial, but not speak overmuch, and to meet back at the river when they'd finished, successful or not.

Dwalin watched them go, and probably wasn't the only one wondering whether they'd just made a massive blunder.

"Move on." Thorin's familiar order was quiet but understood. No point going any closer to the city. They'd wait further down the river, where they'd be less likely to be spotted by anyone in the city who might recognize Thorin. Anyway, the smell of unattainable food would probably have driven them wild.

"You can put me down now," Billa whispered, clearly embarrassed. "They're not looking."

Dwalin had to roll his eyes. Must have been undignified for a Baggins to be bouncing along on a dwarrowdam's hip as though she were little more than a squalling child.

And it was, he had to admit, somewhat amusing to watch Nikû's steady gait as she walked, now with a distinctly feminine sway to compensate for the halfling's weight. Well, it was distinctly feminine to Dwalin's eyes, in any case. To the sons of Men, perhaps the obvious wasn't quite so pronounced. They missed much, after all.

"Once we are farther from the village, Miss Baggins," Nikû responded calmly, and the hobbit harrumphed quietly to herself.

They were another half-league beyond the village when they finally stopped and set up camp. The arrival of Gimli and Glóin with supplies was practically cause for celebration, until they realized that most of what the ginger dwarves had brought were packs, blankets and tools. Dwalin sat on the river bank, soaking his leg again (Thorin would start looking practically _motherly_ if he didn't watch himself) and watching Nikû's fishing line. They would survive, of this he was sure. No weak link would tear apart the chain they had forged. Dwalin set his jaw as he pulled up the twitching line and tossed a silver fish onto the bank. They would not be broken. He would make sure of it.


	16. Ori; Mistrust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and the others finally leave Mirkwood behind, though not without a little trouble to go with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, this chapter is late. The next one will likely be late as well. Loki and I have both been dreadfully busy (I'm supposed to have moved in fifteen days, and Loki's applying seriously for that costuming school in New Zealand). I'll let you all know when life smooths out again, as I have every confidence it eventually will. 
> 
> In other news, I have a new car! His name is Smitty, and he is mine, and he will be my Smitty. :D

Ori jolted awake to a confusing world of darkness and close, unmoving air. The only thing that she could find that wasn't as it should be was the space next to her - empty. Fíli had never come to bed. Then the hand on her shoulder shook her again, this time accompanied by a hoarse whisper.

"Ori, wake up!"

The dwarrowdam sat up, adrenaline thrilling through her system, and had no idea why she needed to be awake. What she did know was that Fíli wouldn't have woken her, especially with that tone, if it wasn't very, very important. Ori opened her mouth to ask her husband what was happening when she heard, outside the tent, a low hiss, and the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn.

She fumbled for the long dagger still strapped in its sheath at her side, managing to draw it just as the first of the sounds of struggle rose to trouble the stillness.

"Stay here, keep quiet," Fíli urged her quickly before darting back out of the tent. There came the distinctive sound of a blade lodging in flesh, accompanied by an inhuman howl of pain. Gwínir whispered harshly, but she couldn't catch what he'd said. A heavy thud.

Ori quailed, the knife rattling in her hands, and she forced herself out into the night. She'd not leave her One to face the beasts - whatever they were - alone.

The faintest trace of pre-dawn light was filtering through the thick canopy, by which she could see the vague outline of Fíli and the taller form of Gwínir. Their attackers were low-slung black smudges, darting up to the elf and leaping back again. They circled Fíli, and as Ori joined her husband, she could see a brief flash of foggy light off his sword, stained dark with blood. Were they spiders? Wolves? It was impossible to tell. One came too close and she lashed out - her knife struck flesh and the creature let out a howl that was half shriek, and skittered away.

"Ori, I told you to stay in the tent!" Fíli's urgent whisper was almost lost in the shifting of leaves under many small feet.

"Not much use there," she replied quietly, still shaking such that her knife nearly dropped from her hand. Another of the creatures lunged for her, and she instinctively slashed at it. It seemed more prepared for her move than the last had been, though, and evaded her blade, dodging around behind her. Ori turned to keep it in sight, knife poised, stepping back on wobbly legs.

Something whizzed past her ear, and the creature snarled out its last before dropping heavily at Ori's feet. She released a shuddering breath, disgust and terror seizing her limbs.

"Don't stand there gawking," Gwínir hissed. "There's more coming."

"Stay behind me." Fíli's voice rose in clipped tones as he seized her arm and positioned her at his back. "Don't move."

She knew, of course, that such an order was absolutely ridiculous - that he didn't mean for her not to move, but for her to stay at his back. The two of them would protect each other. It made her feel good, but at the same time, she hated it.

"Is it light enough to move?" Fíli's question might as well have been a cue for another of the creatures to attack. He pivoted to meet it, slamming his sword point-first into its body and giving it a powerful shove as it writhed and hissed.

"How well can you see?" Gwínir shot back, and twisting a little so the dwarves were sheltering his rear. Ori wondered why they were still whispering. It made the quiet battle all the more frightening.

"Shadows and outlines," Fíli admitted, and his tone of dislike was clear.

Ori tensed as a creature rushed her, but it sprang back before it had reached her legs, as though it expected to be kicked.

"Well then," Gwínir continued tensely, dropping the creature that had threatened Ori with a well-placed arrow, "I don't think rushing blindly into the trees is the best course of action, no."

Fíli cursed under his breath, which made Ori cringe slightly, but she tried to maintain focus. Her companions steadily dispatched the dark onslaught, but it seemed the number of creatures never lessened.

"What are they?" Ori whispered shakily. "Spiders?"

"Aye." Fíli sounded a bit breathless. The attacks were becoming more and more frequent, the spiders more frenzied in their bid to overwhelm them.

"We must have stumbled upon their last big nest," Gwínir said unhappily. "They are truly desperate."

" _Now_ you tell me," Fíli muttered, his words practically drowned out by the hair-raising shriek of a wounded spider.

Ori shuddered again, reminded powerfully of the day they were all injected with spider-venom, wound in sticky, smothering webs. In her hallucinations, the spiders' voices had been horrible, creaky, reedy, full of glee as they poked and prodded them. No. She couldn't endure that again. Couldn't watch it happen to her One. _Wouldn't._

Her blood surged as she sprang from behind Fíli with a feral yell, her knife dancing in and out of black shapes, her movements quick and instinctive. It was as though she'd gone completely wild, her terror turned into desperate strength and speed. If Fíli and Gwínir were shouting at her in alarm, she neither heard nor cared.

One spider fell before her, then a second, then a third. She sprang back, twisting as spindly legs tried to catch her, as mandibles came close enough to her face for her to see glistening drops of venom shivering at the tip of each jagged point. The spiders swarmed forward, obscuring their fallen comrades, using the dead and dying as springboards. Ori slew a fourth, then a fifth, lodging her knife deep in a spider's crunchy exoskeleton. Dark, acidic blood bubbled over her hands, and Ori yanked her weapon free. The skin between her fingers burned especially, and she spun with another cry, which seemed to excite the spiders further.

"Ori!" Fíli's frightened yell caught her attention for a moment, and she realized the spiders had blocked her off from the others. She was surrounded.

Before she had time to even remotely consider what to do next, a blinding flash of light burnt away the darkness, as though the sun had risen all in an instant and come to dwell in the heart of the forest. The dagger dropped from her fingers as she leaned down, shielding her eyes, and a terrified chorus of shrieks rose from the creatures around her. Squinting between her fingers, she could just make out the skittering legs of a dozen huge spiders as they clawed at their eyes and tried to escape the clearing.

"What's h-happening?" The words stuck in her throat, and she wasn't sure anyone heard her. This light... it made no sense, even if it _was_  vaguely familiar.

All at once, it subsided, and she was left in darkness again, the flash seemingly seared across her eyes. She moved forward blindly. "What's going on?" Her voice was little more than a weak, shaky rasp. "Fíli?"

"What in the name of the Seven-?" Fíli's voice was startlingly close, and Ori stopped just before he collided with her. An instant later, she was on her back, winded and blinking.

"I didn't know dwarves were so pushy toward their wives." Gwínir's voice was farther away but distinctly shaky as though the elf had had a bad scare. Fíli choked on an oath and hastily helped Ori to her feet.

"I'm sorry, Ori, I could see..."

"It's fine." The dwarrowdam clasped Fíli's hands, waiting as he brushed her off and the world resolved once again into shadows around her. "Gwínir? What was that light?" Fíli didn't stop his brushing, but she could tell he was listening intently. There was a very pregnant pause.

"It was... me." The elf sounded a little uncertain, and Fíli straightened sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain on the way. Gather your things - the spiders may return."

Ori was still quaking like a leaf as she gathered up what little of her supplies she'd unpacked, relying almost solely on feel to scoop up the blankets and bedding and stuff them into her pack. Then she remembered.

"My knife." She turned toward where she'd last seen Fíli, though it was hard to keep her bearings. "Fee, I dropped it. Do you s-?"

He pressed it into her hand suddenly, and she jumped slightly. "Thanks, love."

"Hurry," Gwínir hissed. "No time." Off they went, then, at a quick jog, single file, the elf leading, Ori in the middle, and Fíli bringing up the rear. It was a terrifying, breathless segment, and no matter how Ori tried to move quietly, her boots seemed to always find the brittlest of twigs and crunchiest of leaves. She winced every time, but Gwínir did not pause or give any indication of displeasure.

Faintly, now and anon, they'd hear sounds, rustling in the bushes, creaking in boughs overhead, and Ori clenched her teeth and kept moving. It was truly unnerving, unsettling in a way the actual fight hadn't been, and she thought for an instant she might be going mad.

That was when the music started. Even over the rustling and creaking and goodness-only-knew what other noises their eight-legged "friends" were making, Ori could hear a distant thread of flute music. She didn't notice Gwínir had stopped until she collided, face-first, with the elf's back. Fíli caught her as she staggered, and she could see Gwínir's outline as he turned to look at them, his movements hesitant.

Skittering, rustling, crunching - the noises of their pursuers got louder and, Ori assumed with a shudder, closer. The elf shook his head slightly, and the flute music faded again.

"What was that?" barked Fíli, and Ori felt his hands tighten like vices around her shoulders. She didn't mind, though. The almost-pain kept her anchored, somehow.

"The king," answered Gwínir shortly. "We are to leave the path."

"Leave the path?" Ori's voice squeaked a little as it left her throat, a tight little question that held a world of fear. A repeat of the wandering and sickness and starvation was NOT something she wanted. Ever.

"I will be your guide. You need to trust me." Gwínir was already moving again, reaching out to take her hand, striding past her, back the way they had come and a little to the right.

Well, what choice did they have? Even Fíli offered no argument after that, and the dwarves made their way onward as directed, encountering no more trouble beyond fatigue, blisters and a minimum of stubbed toes.

The light crept slowly beneath the canopy, glowing golden through the uppermost leaves, and with it came, high and far away, scattered birdsong.

Ori could scarcely believe it, and thought she might be imagining it. She'd heard nothing of birds the first time they'd journeyed through Mirkwood. She'd have remembered something so cheerful and, well, ordinary.

"Is... is that it?" she whispered, cautiously. "They're not coming back?"

The golden-green light brought out a softness in Gwínir's visage as he turned to check his wards. "Yes... I believe that will be all we'll see of them for a while. The spiders don't like the light, and avoid it when they can." Withdrawing a small jar of salve from his satchel, Gwínir indicated a sluggishly bleeding wound on Fíli's shoulder and handed it to him. Surprisingly, the blond took it without complaint, and shucked off his pack so he could treat the hurt. Ori wasn't about to comment on it.

"But... what was that light? You didn't-"

"Elf-magic," growled Fíli, but there was little bite to his tone. Gwínir let out a faint snort.

"Hardly the term I would have used. But in a way, yes. Elf-magic."

"In a way?" Ori's finger itched for a quill and ink. This was unexplored territory - never in all her long hours of reading had she ever come across any records concerning elvish magic, beyond the occasional vague reference to their remarkable healing skills.

"To outsiders, our ways cannot be fully understood," Gwínir went on, sounding, for once, a bit weary. "Suffice it to say, the king was aware of our plight and did not wish for us to die. Rather magnanimous of him, I think." A bit of a pause.

Fíli shook his head, frowning.

"And what is that supposed to mean? How could he have known?"

"He is keenly attuned to what transpires within the borders of his realm. And those of us who are his kin share a bond that transcends what distance lies between us."

Ori knew her curiosity regarding Elven ways wouldn't improve Fíli's mood any, but couldn't resist. "You mean... you're royalty?"

Gwínir sighed, but didn't slacken his pace. "His youngest son."

Ori's face twitched in shock, but Gwínir raised a hand as though to downplay the revelation. "Oh, don't take it like that. The king has many children, few of whom he favors. We cannot _all_  be Legolas, I'm afraid." The elf lowered his voice slightly, and it struck Ori that he sounded halfway... ashamed. "He scarcely acknowledges me. And no wonder."

Ori traded a glance with Fíli, but the blond's expression was unreadably stony. He reminded her strongly of his uncle, and the thought brought on a spasm of grief. With a sigh, she focused on her feet.

"I'm sorry."

Gwínir tossed a brief look over his shoulder seeming surprised. "Don't be. The realities of the Woodland court are what they are, and no amount of wishing will change it."

"I didn't know that elves were in the habit of... sowing their seed so widely." Fíli's words, however crass (Ori elbowed him for it) still piqued her interest.

Gwínir produced something of an incredulous huff, as though he couldn't quite fathom the rudeness of dwarves. "I'm sure you wouldn't understand, even were I to spend an age explaining it to you. With manners like that, you're hardly worth it."

Fíli relented, muttering something that might've been an apology.

"It's enough to know I'm little more than an embarrassment," the elf went on, "and I'm surprised the king cared at all to save us. You'd do well to remember it, if you cross paths with our folk again."

"I don't think... he's as heartless as he seems." Ori wasn't sure what made her speak up, but by the way the two males looked at her, it had been wildly out of place. She felt a familiar flush of heat crawl across her face and looked down at the ground as it passed under her feet. "I don't mean... he's just.... It's like anyone who's lost a lot. I think he just has a hard time showing it when he cares."

There was a beat of weighty silence, broken only by the rhythmic footfalls of the three and the birdsong, high above them in the canopy. Gwínir shook his head slightly.

"You know nothing of my king."

It made her sad to note that he said 'my king,' not 'my father.'

The elf seemed to pick up his pace, Ori suspected to hinder further discussion. "With any luck, he will not have cause to intervene again. We will walk another hour or so, and then stop for a rest. Not a long one, mind you. We must make the most of the daylight hours."

Ori's shoulders slumped. The mention of rest brought home to her just how exhausted she was, and she knew Fíli must be even more so. On top of that, he was wounded, and the brief treatment he'd received was hardly adequate.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

"Long," as it turned out, was hardly an adequate word. Even their break was hardly more than a chance to breathe before they were moving on, staggering through the trees. They were thinner here, and Ori hoped the sun and the birds would continue to keep them company.

Gwínir was ruthless as he drove them on. Path or no, they needed to make as much use of the daylight as they could. It was Fíli who eventually stopped the elf, though not in the way Ori imagined he might. There was no insults or demands. The blond simply fell over.

"What are you doing?" Gwínir turned to frown at the dwarves as Ori stumbled to a halt.

"Fine. 'm fine," mumbled Fíli flapping a limp hand halfheartedly without lifting his face from the leaves he was lying in. "Jus' gimme a minute."

Ori's gasp of shock was little more than a squeak. She managed a somewhat controlled collapse beside Fíli, trying in vain to turn him over.

"He's too weak," she rasped faintly, a hint of pleading in her eyes. "He's been hurt. Can't just... keep going on and on."

Gwínir looked remotely put out, but seemed to understand the futility of arguing. "An hour, then," he acquiesced, slipping the pack from his shoulders with a resigned air. "Here, dwarf." His silver canteen landed with a light crunch in the leaf pile Fíli's face seemed to be having trouble escaping. "Give him some water."

"Love, can't you turn over?" Ori poked the blond in his side, a particularly ticklish spot she knew would elicit some kind of reaction. As she'd hoped, he flipped over with a yelp, his gaze flicking to her with a generous indication of betrayal. _That was our secret!_  his face seemed to say, and Ori wisely preempted the smile coming on by reaching for the canteen. He was going to be just fine.

"Drink," she said, pulling the stopper. "Then you can rest."

"He will need sutures," Gwínir said evenly, studying the contents of his pack. Fíli paused mid-swig, eyes widening with realization as the elf drew a needle and thread from a small rolled kit.

"No, no, I'm fine," he said quickly, handing the canteen back to Ori, wincing noticeably. "I'll wait 'til Rivendell."

Gwínir laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, and accompanied by an exasperated glance. "I know dwarves are hardy folk, but not that hardy. Remove your shirt. It'll not take but a moment."

Fíli resisted a little longer, but at length, he unlaced his tunic and pulled it open at the neck to expose his wounded shoulder. The bleeding had stopped, and it wept clear, sticky fluid, but it did look rather deep, even if the cut was small. Gwínir treated it again with the salve from his little jar, then made quick work of two small stitches, drawing the inflamed lips of the wound closed.

"No complaints or insults, Master Dwarf?" Gwínir lifted his eyebrows at Fíli, who looked away, tipping his head slightly to indicate a shrug.

"You saved our lives." Ori swayed slightly as she looked up at their guide and smiled in what she hoped was a grateful way, and not just tired. "A life-debt is no small matter." And at this rate, she felt she would be indebted to half of Middle-earth before they reached Rivendell.

"I see." Gwínir tucked the needle away and stood. "Rest now. I will keep watch, and wake you when it's time."

Fíli hissed slightly when the elf's eyes were no longer on him, no doubt too proud to betray his pain and discomfort during the process. Ori took his hand and squeezed it. "Come on, love. You need some sleep."

She quickly unfolded the bedding she'd hastily stuffed in the pack, spreading it out best she could over the uneven ground. The wool had attracted quite the collection of twigs and leaves, and she brushed them off best she could. Fíli folded himself into the blankets with a slight moan, and then didn't move again. Ori nestled against his side, and it seemed a bare minute later his breathing had slowed into the steady, gentle rumble of sleep.

Minutes passed as she listened to that wonderful sound, the rhythm of his breathing and his heart against her back as soothing as anything she'd ever known. Ori didn't, however, fall asleep immediately. As tired as she was, she had thought she'd be out like a snuffed candle, but apparently, her mind had other ideas.

"Gwínir?" There was a slight shift in the leaves, just out of her range of vision, and she knew the elf was listening. "Thank you. For... everything." She could feel his gaze on her, and decided to lift her head slightly - his expression was one of mild confusion.

"You're welcome."

Ori put her head down again, and smiled. Things seemed better now, to her at least. In a matter of moments, she was asleep.

* * *

The heavy, musty smell faded with the clear air beyond the borders of the trees. Ori breathed deeply, feeling somehow as though she were just waking, just coming out of a dream. With the clear air, though, came the breeze, which was particularly cold and biting, and threatened rain.

Ori honestly couldn't place where any of them hid such reserves of strength and stamina. A week and a day they'd traveled from Thranduil's halls, encountering little further difficulties beyond the hardships of travel. Gwínir had led them at a dogged pace, allowing little rest, and seemed to have had little perception of or concern for when his charges were at the point of collapse.

The waxing moon was bright above them, casting a silver glow across the grassy flats beyond, and Ori knew it must be some hours after midnight.

"We're safe now, yes?" Fíli surveyed the landscape warily. "We can rest here?"

Gwínir seemed mildly pleased with himself. "If you insist."

Ori plopped down heavily, wincing at her blisters and aching muscles. "Gwinir, you'll stay with us at least until morning... won't you?" However "safe" Fíli judged the borders to be, she didn't much like the idea of being left in the darkness here. It felt too open, too unprotected, after the closeness of the trees.

The elf let out a laugh, which seemed sour in the cold, clear air.

"I will be here in the morning. And as soon as I can persuade you two layabouts to break camp, we will continue our journey." Gwínir gave Ori a sidelong look that seemed a little more self-pitying than she would have liked to see.

"Whaddya mean, _our journey?_ " Fíli grit the words out between clenched teeth. He had made no secret of his frustration with the elf and his ways, but since they had left the path, the alternative was much worse.

"I've been assigned to escort you safely to Rivendell. My apologies for the inconvenience, your highness." Gwínir offered a mocking bow, then shook his head. "Sleep. The sun will be rising in but three hours."

Three hours passed with the unpleasant swiftness of all their past days of interrupted sleep, ending abruptly with Gwínir's boot nudging Ori's side.

"I'm up, I'm up," she mumbled, words that weren't precisely true, but seemed to achieve their goal in that the elf withdrew his foot and moved on to Fíli.

"That was three hours?" the blond moaned beside her. "It's not even-"

"If you'd but open your eyes," Gwínir insisted, "I'm sure you will find it is quite light, and you are wasting precious travel time."

"We're not in your forest anymore, in case you hadn't noticed."

Gwínir seemed unperturbed by the challenge, and chuckled blithely, an act that seemed to have a rather unpleasant effect on Fíli.

Ori felt as he stiffened and pushed himself upright, and could feel very nearly as keenly the glare with which he was fixing the elf.

"Look, princeling, I know it's been good fun for you dragging us through the forest like we've had the hordes of hell on our heels, but we're getting tired of it."

"Fíli." Ori wished she didn't have to break into her "scolding mam" tone so often these days.

"You've made your point. We're not elves. We can't go on for days and days feeding on air and light and other folk's misery."

"Fíli!" Now Ori was glaring at him, but the effect was rather unpromising. The blond seemed unfazed, perhaps having acclimated to the novelty of Ori's extreme displeasure with him.

Gwínir sighed, turning his back on them. "It seems we have reached something of an impasse."

"Only because you're too stubborn to compromise."

"Compromise? Ha! With you?" Gwínir's tone had taken a decidedly nasty turn, and now Ori felt rather like she was standing between two angry bulls, though she'd not even left the safety of her blankets yet. "Your goal is to get to Rivendell, I aim to get you there was quickly as possible. I have no intention of wasting more time on you than I have to."

Ori burrowed deeper into the soft wool, which was still warm and smelled of her husband.

"Wasting time?!" Even muffled by the blankets pulled over her head, Fíli sounded outraged. "We never asked you to come along, you know."

"And I never wanted to receive these orders," retorted Gwínir. The elf was just as bad as Fíli, if not even worse. "Your company was never what I-"

"Would you two STOP IT?" Ori sat up, flinging back the heavy wool and gaining her feet with a speed that surprised even her. "If I hear another word of your sniping, by my first ancestor, I will make the rest of this journey _alone._ " The two males were silent, gazing at her in surprise.

Fíli cleared his throat, eyes shifting between Gwínir and his very displeased wife. It seemed to be sinking in that she was serious.

Gwínir nodded slightly. "Very well. Have it your way." He turned his back on them again. "Still, now that you're both quite awake, it seems hardly fit that you'd return to sleep. We should make use of your sudden... energy."

Fíli scoffed, but wisely swallowed whatever retort was no doubt itching to come off his tongue.

"We'll have some food first, if you don't mind," Ori said, calmer now, reaching into her pack. She pressed a bit of dried fruit and waybread into Fíli's hand. "I'm tired of eating on the run. We won't be long."

Gwínir glanced imploringly skyward, but kept silent, pacing away a few steps.

"This is the last time I ever do anything with Elves," Fíli muttered uncharitably. "This is a nightmare."

"We owe him a life-debt, love," Ori whispered, munching on the dried fruit. "The least we can do is be courteous."

Fíli snorted again, but held his tongue in check. It was only a few minutes before they were packing their things again and moving on in relative silence, and for the next few hours, the boys kept their sniping to a minimum. Ori took what comfort she could in the tenuous peace that had settled between them. Gwínir pushed them hard, but not ruthlessly, and Fíli grumbled only a little.

It was early afternoon when Fíli pointed out the line of hills they had followed by pony from Beorn's house. The journey felt as though it had been an Age ago.

"We could... rest in his house tonight." Fíli's voice startled her from her reverie, and Ori felt almost as though the suggestion were blasphemy of some sort. She glanced at her husband anxiously, and he continued. "You know... check on his animals, if they're still there. It would be safe and dry."

"Pardon my overhearing," Gwínir said, stiffly, "but by 'him' do you mean the skin-changer?"

"Beorn," Fíli replied, obviously working to keep his tone civil. "His name was Beorn."

The elf nodded. "The Bear is dead, if the tales that returned with my kin after the Battle are to be believed. I was not there, so I know little beyond their whisperings. It is not something we prefer to discuss."

"He's gone," Ori confirmed, eyes downcast. "I don't know what happened, exactly. I wasn't there, either."

"Nor I," Fíli murmured. "But Kee said... he had kin who came in the days afterward. To honor him."

"Strange." Gwínir adjusted the straps of his pack slightly, casting a brief glance over his shoulder. His hair, lustrous, light auburn, gleamed in the afternoon sun, clean and tangle-free as anyone could wish.

Ori didn't even want to imagine what hers looked like, if Fíli's was any indication. A bit of a respite - warm straw, a bath, tables and chairs - even if it was incredibly sad to find the skin-changer's home so forlornly in want of its master, would certainly not go unappreciated.

"If you don't mind, Gwínir," she said carefully, "it might be a good idea to enjoy some civilized comforts while we can."

The elf made a soft scoffing sound in his throat, mutter something about 'civilized,' but gave Ori a slight nod. "As you wish."

It took only very minor alterations to adjust their course, passing through the thick copse of pines and then down into the valley. It was early evening when they saw the house, and Fíli made a comment about their desperate flight across the sward last time they had been here - chased by their host. Gwínir gave him a very odd look at that, and the blond fell silent.

Ori paused at the hedge, looking over the beehives and feeling a fierce pang of grief. Some had the look of ransacked homes, walls and contents missing. The garden, though mostly wild, had an untended, lonely feel about it. They moved forward quietly, and found the front door partially open.

"I wonder what happened." Fíli pushed the door gently open, and Ori bit her lip as her thoughts raced ahead of his words. "This place doesn't look like it was hit by orcs."

"Indeed it wasn't."

This new voice startled an undignified shriek out of Ori, completely unexpected and unlooked-for. It was deep and gravelly, like Beorn's had been, but subtly different. When they turned back, there was an enormous figure silhouetted in the hedge gate. When the figure stepped into the light, it became immediately apparent this was another skin-changer, close to ten feet tall, though lacking any sort of beard. In fact...

"Who are you, that you enter the garden of Beorn without invitation?" The huge female fixed them with an almost feral look, clearly disapproving of their presence.

Gwínir had pulled his bow from its sheath upon the approach to the house, and now, much to the dwarves' obvious consternation, had an arrow on the string.

"No." Fíli held up a hand in warning. "No."

Hesitantly, the elf unnocked the arrow and returned it to his quiver. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Seeing as no one had yet answered the skin-changer's question, Ori steeled what remained of her courage and stepped forward, bowing low. "Ori, daughter of Lís, at your service. This is my husband, Fíli, and our companion and guide, Gwínir. We knew Beorn, and are... grieved that he fell in the Battle."

The skin-changer took a step closer, studying the group warily, her golden eyes not quite hostile, but not exactly welcoming either. In the light admitted by the doorway, she became a picture of fierce beauty, her hair a rich chestnut brown hanging in wild, spiky layers, her body lean but well-muscled, her clothes and boots roughly woven.

"How did you, a dwarf, know Beorn?" she scoffed. "He was not given to friendship or alliance with any but those who live in harmony with the natural world. Why should I believe you?"

Ori shivered slightly, remembering Beorn's speech on precisely that subject. How dwarves were greedy, and didn't care about the lives around them. Her throat tightened a little, and she took a steadying breath before answering.

"We... were following Gandalf the Grey. He led us here for shelter, several months ago, and Beorn helped us avoid the orcs that were hunting us."

One wild eyebrow twitched upward slightly, but the skin-changer said nothing. It was intimidating, and a touch disheartening, to see that distrustful expression and know there was very little she could do to banish it. Suddenly, the female's head lifted slightly, her eyes losing their focus for a moment.

"My mate is coming. He will know whether you can be trusted or not."

A handful of seconds passed before the heavy tread of huge paws became audible, and Ori tensed. She remembered her first sighting of Beorn's bear form all too clearly, and the nearness of death made her feel cold inside. The hedge swayed a little as the enormous black bear passed through the gate, and as its scarred muzzle swung around to face them, bright tawny eyes trained on their little group.

_Intruders._

_Thieves._

Darkness danced at the edges of her vision and Ori swayed. There was no way they would be able to get into the house quickly enough to survive. Not at this range. As the female, still on two legs, put a hand on the bear's back, she growled softly, and Ori sent a desperate prayer to the Valar.

_Don't let them eat Fíli._

She heard light footfalls beside her, and peeled her eyes open a little. Gwínir had moved to stand in front of the two dwarves, effectively shielding them from the huge black bear's eyes.

"The Woodland Realm has always respected the territory of the great Skin-Changer," he said, keeping his gaze deferentially lowered. He had left his bow near Fíli, and Ori wondered if it would pay off as a gesture of goodwill, or merely end up making the bear's meal that much easier. "On my honor, we did not know any yet lived here, and wished only for safety and rest. We beg pardon."

The black bear had taken a few lumbering steps forward, golden eyes trained on him evaluatingly. The female remained still, watching her mate.

Ori shrank back against her husband, feeling him quiver slightly, tense as a coiled snake. The bear, however, seemed entirely unbothered, and continued to inspect Gwínir closely as he paused, barely one rolling stride from the elf's lean form. Ori had read the phrase "deafening silence" before, but it had always seemed silly to her. Until now. It was as though the stillness were shouting, screaming out warnings to her. She found herself trembling, ready to bolt, and felt shame wash through her.

Just then, the great bear turned his heavy, blunt head and growled softly to his mate before stepping forward, rocking up onto his hind legs. Thick black hair receded, bones popped and cracked loudly, and the bear shrank slightly, condensing into the form of a broad, muscular, and very naked man. Ori blushed and looked away quickly.

"You don't smell like a liar," the man rumbled, his voice deeper, yet smoother than Beorn's had been, "but it's foolish to trust the word of a Wood Elf. Speak your piece."

Gwínir nodded. If he was discomfited, he was very good at masking it. Speaking easily with few pauses, he relayed in brief the task he'd been assigned, the terrors the group had faced in the forest, and their desire to find shelter to regroup. To his credit, he defended the dwarves at every turn, working to counter the skin changers' existing opinions of their race as little more than greedy earth ravagers. There wasn't, at least, the same dislike of Elvenkind that the skin changers had for dwarves, and that strengthened Gwínir's advocacy somewhat.

Fíli listened in astonished silence, for which Ori was exceedingly thankful. In her estimation, it increased their chances of surviving this encounter in one piece.

When Gwínir had finished, the huge man surprised them with a low chuckle, turning to saunter back toward his mate as though the dwarves and their protector no more concerned him now than a couple of pesky flies.

"Very well, then. Shelter you shall have. We like the vile, eight-legged filth no more than you do. Their hatred of you is good enough for me."

Ori watched, somewhat awed, as the Skinchangers butted heads gently and spoke in low, rumbling voices. They seemed entirely at ease with themselves, as though their combined strength was enough to take on the world. Having seen Beorn at work, she didn't doubt it. Whatever they said amongst themselves, it was quickly settled.

"Come, little ones, and rest your weary bones inside. I will light a fire, then my mate and I will patrol the borders." The male, still cheerfully naked, led them inside, and Ori felt Fíli's arm about her tighten slightly. The female Skinchanger still eyed them distrustfully, but said nothing to contradict her mate.

Hesitantly, Ori followed Gwínir and her husband through the tall doorway. The place smelled thickly of straw and beasts, the light dim, but warm. It was fadingly familiar, the inside of Beorn's house, and as Ori's eyes adjusted, the image returned of Fíli lying in the straw, wounded and exhausted after the escape from Azog's trackers. How she'd wanted to help him, to comfort him or... do _anything_  besides sitting there helpless and quiet. But that time was long gone. Things were less certain than ever now.

Gwínir left the two dwarves to stand staring, moving toward the raised platform and table that occupied much of the left hand portion of the main room. He spoke in low tones to the two skin changers while Ori and Fíli exchanged uncomfortable glances. It was rather hard to transition from "in deadly peril" to "welcome" at the drop of a hat, however much they should have been used to it by now.

Finally, with a sigh, Fíli settled into a pile of straw, ignoring the large horned creature chewing contentedly a few feet off. Ori sat beside him stiffly, unable to calm her racing heart.

"You think it's... safe?" she whispered, throwing a glance at the two skin changers, who were listening attentively to whatever Gwínir had to say.

"When is it ever?" Fíli ran a hand through his hair, looking rather frazzled. "Let our guard down for a minute, and it seems like there's always something waiting to take advantage of it. I haven't had a decent sleep in days."

Ori shot him a worried look, noting the deep shadows under his blue eyes, and knew it was the truth. She felt guilty for her own ability to sleep, in spite of the anxiety that plagued them. Sometimes, she didn't even remember stopping for the night when she woke up in the morning with Fíli sitting beside her.

"I don't think they'd lie, though," she pointed out hopefully. "Beorn was a good man, and he saved Thorin during the Battle, remember?" She knew, even before Fíli twitched, that mentioning Thorin's name had been a mistake. She'd forgotten, for a moment, that they were all gone.

"Get some rest, you two." When Gwínir had joined them, she didn't know, and Ori nearly crawled out of her own skin in surprise at the sound of his voice. The elf deposited his things beside them and offered a wary sort of smile. "We're safe here for tonight. Sleep, and I'll wake you when there's food for you."

"Food" came in the form of a simple hard cake, grayish in color, drizzled with honey. The cake was softer on the inside, but a bit chewy. Ori nibbled at it tiredly. She almost wished Gwínir had let her sleep rather than waking her for the meal.

"It's good."

"Not half bad. More filling than that pasty elf waybread."

"Fee, you're tired. Don't start in again." Ori hoped Gwínir hadn't heard. It seemed no matter how many times the elf saved their lives, her husband would never get past his distaste for him. A quick scan of the dark room revealed Gwínir leaning with his back to the opposite wall, arms folded before him, eyes half open. Sleeping, maybe. Elves were peculiar that way. The skin changers were nowhere to be seen.

Fíli sighed forlornly, twisting at his rather unkempt facial hair. He'd been doing that a lot lately in lieu of properly braiding his mustache. Ori had faint hopes of a bath and a chance to wash her clothes. The Elven traveling garb still bore dark stains, and no doubt smelled of spider.

Dori would have been appalled. No use pretending it wasn't like ice water in the face each time she realized anew he, too, was gone from her life for good.

"Get some sleep, Ori."

The dwarrowdam turned, blinking owlishly at her husband. "But... I thought we were eating."

"You're not eating. You're staring off into space." The words were spoken with a tenuous hint of fondness. "You're too tired, love. Wrap it up and save it for morning."

Morning heralded itself with streams of pale light from the high windows. Ori twitched as the cattle began a chorus of polite bellowing, unconsciously smoothing straw out of her hair. She didn't wake fully until the door hinges shrieked like delighted goblins, releasing the beasts out to pasture.

"Fíli? Fee?"

Going to sleep in the company of a loved one and waking up to find him inexplicably missing isn't a good feeling, even if it's short-lived. Especially when one is in a place where missing people could quite well have become meals for their hosts.

But that was silly. Gwínir wasn't here either, so it was a safe assumption he and Fíli were together. An odd thought, really. Trying not to get herself too worked up, Ori extricated herself from her straw-coated blankets and headed for the door.

The sunshine hit her face like warm water, and she paused a moment, slightly stunned by the hour. The sun was full above the horizon now, and as the enormous cattle meandered out of the garden to the field beyond, she caught sight of a head of damp blond hair bobbing through the tall grass. Gwínir was just behind him, and raised a hand to her, saying something to Fíli that she couldn't hear for the distance between them.

The two males emerged from the grasses, dusted themselves off and entered the garden quietly. Ori couldn't suppress a flood of relief at the sight of them, and felt weak-kneed as her husband approached. He looked... very clean. His mustache was even in order, braided and all. She suddenly felt the rather desperate urge to soak in scalding water.

"You... weren't here," she muttered, embarrassed as he reached for her hand. Ori side-stepped him. "You're all clean. I'll just get you dirty."

Fíli huffed a quiet laugh. "We can take care of that. There's a huge stone tub out behind the garden wall." He pointed back the way they'd come. "It's pretty overgrown, so you'll have some privacy. The water's still hot, and you can wash your clothes at the same time." Here, he grinned up at Gwínir, who looked unamused. "He left a tiny sliver of soap for you. Charitable fellow."

"There's no sense in wasting a precious commodity," Gwínir muttered, crossing his arms and pacing past them back into the house.

Ori noticed then that the elf's hair was also damp, gleaming copper and gold in the sunlight, and she smothered a smile. Maybe it was the weather, or Fíli's unusually good mood, but today felt a lot less threatening than last night. After persuading her husband to stand guard, she climbed into the warm water and relished the reality of a bath. It had seemed like such a delicious, far-off idea last night. Now it was coming true. She couldn't even remember where her last bath was.

But one could only lounge in luxury for so long. She attacked her clothes, which were almost hopelessly ruined, but by the time she finished there was some improvement. Then, laying them out to dry, she scrubbed herself ruthlessly. The 'sliver of soap' was a real blessing, even if there wasn't much left, and by the time Ori emerged, pink and damp, she was sure she smelled much less like spider.

Wet clothes weren't exactly pleasant to change back into, but she wasn't about to wait around for them to dry. She wrung them out best she could and tried to ignore the cold clinginess of the fabric as she wriggled her way into it. A few quick braids fixed her shoulder length hair in place, and soon she was on her way back to join the others.

Breakfast consisted of the same hard cake she'd received the night before, except this time it was partnered with an oversized tankard of fresh milk, which definitely made it go down more smoothly. The male skin changer (Gwínir revealed his name was Medwed) joined them at the table, thankfully dressed this time, but his female companion was nowhere to be seen.

Ori hesitated to ask where she was, but eventually her curiosity got the better of her.

"She who is my mate?" Medwed's tawny eyes narrowed slightly, and he tightened his grip on the handle of his tankard. "Smelled trouble on the wind. She will return shortly if all is well, little dwarf."

"What kind of trouble?" Fíli asked, stiffening with concern. Just what they needed now, more things trying to kill them. As if the spiders hadn't been bad enough.

Medwed shook his head slightly, and took a long drink before he answered, beard glistening with droplets of white. "Nothing that concerns you. They will be long gone by the time you depart."

Ori traded a look with her husband. "They" didn't sound like good news. Orcs. Spiders. Wargs. Trolls. Goblins. The perils of the world were still fresh in her mind, and her fertile imagination conjured the image of a pack of miniature dragons, burning and rending all in their path, swarming over their prey like huge, ravenous locusts. The dwarrowdam shuddered.

"We'd hoped to avoid trouble," Fíli said cautiously, and the Skinchanger let out a low, soft growl.

"Trust us to keep our lands, little dwarf, and we shall do the same."

Fili nodded. "Fair enough." They couldn't expect any further assurances from these wild folk, that much was obvious.

Gwínir interlocked his fingers, waiting a moment for the previous conversation to fade. "We have no wish to burden you longer than necessary, Medwed," he said, tone honeyed and mild. "We thank you for your hospitality, but we have taken all the rest we need, and should be on our way soon."

Fíli frowned unhappily, but said nothing. As ever, Gwínir would cut short their respite all too soon. Tense as their arrival had been, Ori wouldn't have been averse to staying another day at least.

The skin changer nodded slowly. "It is well you go, then, before the daylight hours dwindle. I will see you have what supplies you need. The wilds are nothing new to you, but you have many leagues to go before you reach the elf city. You must keep a sharp eye."

It was only after the Skinchanger strode off that Fíli spoke in a low, venomous tone. "All the rest we need? Maybe elves don't need more than a night's sleep to recover from a journey like that-"

"Fíli." Ori honestly lacked both the energy and the conviction to truly scold him. Just thinking about the journey ahead was enough to make her feel weak with exhaustion. "Just... don't, please. Sniping about it _won't_  help." Maybe it was her weary tone, or maybe he was just feeling charitable, but the blond closed his mouth.

It was as they gathered and packed their things that Medwed's mate lumbered into the garden. She was smaller and more brown in color than black, with a longer, narrower face. She shouldered her way into the house and Medwed went to her as she grunted urgently, a rumbling growl lacing through whatever it was she was saying to him.

"It is well that you are leaving," Medwed said with a sigh, touching his mate's ears gently. "Goblins on the border, and Limka is sure that you brought them."

Fíli frowned, shaking his head quickly. "No. That's ridiculous. If we'd been spotted by any goblins, why wouldn't they have attacked us? There's only _three_  of us."

Medwed's feral gaze narrowed. "An ill omen follows you, little dwarf. Trouble is drawn to you - and all those who help you."

Fíli scoffed, turning away. "Spare me your superstition. We're leaving."

"We thank you for your hospitality, Medwed," Gwínir struggled to return civility to the situation, "and hope you don't rue your aid to us. We understand there is... some amount of risk-"

"Risk?" Fíli hissed. "He's blaming us for a random goblin attack. We can't win with these people, can we?"

Gwínir turned a sharp look on his companion, his expression nearly venomous. "Considering our situation," the elf said very quietly, his tone not hushed so much as lowered, "I would advise you to be grateful to our hosts for not considering us as much a threat as the goblins."

Ori could feel her husband bracing himself for an argument, and put a hand on his arm, silently pleading with him not to antagonize the Skinchangers. Fíli glanced down at her, then snorted. He was discontent, but willing to let it rest for the moment, at least.

In short order, their things were gathered, packed and shouldered. Medwed spent some time growling and grunting with his mate, and as the female lumbered away, he whistled. A fat little donkey trotted into the garden, long ears perked eagerly.

"Come, little one," rumbled Medwed, his tawny eyes focusing on Ori. "You and I shall load food and water onto Clem, and you can take her with you when you go. She will serve you well."

Fíli was clearly a little put off that the skin changer had singled out Ori, and not himself, for the task, but said nothing. Whatever confrontational disposition had taken him of late, it seemed he did, indeed, have some desire to keep it in check. Ori moved hesitantly toward the donkey, but stepped more quickly when Medwed beckoned again.

Clem seemed a docile, if slightly unmotivated, beast of burden, and was more wary of Ori than the skin changer, giving her a healthy dose of side eye. A few reassuring words from Medwed, though, put the donkey more at ease, and she held quite still while Ori fitted her with the roughly-made pack saddle and filled it with the little parcels and bundles the skin changer had set aside for their journey.

Ori tried not to notice Fíli watching her like a hawk from the doorway of the house. Protective instinct, obviously, but beneath it lay that fundamental distrust he seemed to have picked up from his uncle.

At last, all was done, and Ori led the little donkey up toward the house.

"Take good care of her," Medwed said gently. "She knew a good life here, and was never mistreated."

A reasonable concern, Ori thought, considering these skin changers viewed dwarves as little better than orcs in their respect for the natural world.

"Of course," she answered, bowing politely. "We thank you very much for her. Once we get to Rivendell, I'm sure she'll have the best retirement a donkey can get."

Medwed nodded again, and even managed a faint smile. "I don't believe you or your companions mean us harm. Dwarves are unpleasant as a rule, but you seem the decent sort. I trust you'll take good care of Clem. We have little use for so small a creature, and I fear the journey north would not be easy for her." They had reached the house, and Fíli met them at the door. Gwínir stood just behind him, still and quiet. The four of them and the docile little donkey set off at a brisk pace, trailed at a forgiving distance by the enormous brown bear that was Limka.

At first, they walked in silence, but their parting drew ever nearer, and the dwarrowdam knew this might be her last chance to speak with the Skinchanger. Ori hesitated, then looked up into Medwed's bearded face, unable to restrain her curiosity.

"You... knew Beorn, sir? I just... I thought he said he was the last."

A shadow passed across Medwed's expression, and he sighed. "Beorn was my father, and a better steward the land has never had. We were separated many years ago, when orcs took him captive. I thought him dead until we received word of his efforts in the Battle."

Ori felt slightly foolish. She hadn't noticed the resemblance before, but now it was all but obvious. "I'm sorry you weren't... reunited under the best of circumstances."

Medwed grunted his acknowledgment. "You could most certainly say that. But reunited we were, and it counts for something. My mate and I were able to bury him with honor, as befitted him. He was not forgotten, like so many of the others littering the field, or left amongst the foul orcs he slew."

"I know what you mean," Ori said, nodding sadly. "It was such a... forlorn place, after the battle. I lost a brother, and am thankful I got to care for him properly. But the thought of all those others lying there, unmourned... I hate battle, and the need for it. It is wasteful. So wasteful." Nori would've reproached her for the sentiment, probably, told her she was being silly. Unrealistic. Well, what did it matter what he would have said? He wasn't here. He wasn't here _because of_  that accursed battle.

When she looked up again, the huge Skinchanger was giving her an appraising look, almost as though he approved. Well, of course he would. Respect for life. That was what they valued, wasn't it?

They traveled in silence for another hour, then two, Medwed ambling along at a slow walk while the dwarves took swift strides to keep up with his long-legged gait. Gwínir, as ever, seemed to travel with speed and never exert himself. And bringing up the rear, little Clem trundled dutifully along, her packs rustling as they settled across her back. At length, Medwed halted on a low hillock, looking over the green field spread before them and the scraggly stands of pine beyond.

"This is where I leave you, little friends." He looked down at them and bowed slightly. "May the Green Lady look after you in your travels."

"Thank you, Medwed, for your kindness." Gwínir bowed low. "I hope you will remain in these lands as long as you are able. The Woodland Realm will be glad to know of your presence here."

Ori, too, bowed, echoing Gwínir's thanks. Fíli neither bowed nor spoke, but his manner seemed sufficiently in accordance with the others.

Clem seemed to understand she was about to be taken away by strangers, and looked uneasy, but a few reassuring words from Medwed were enough to calm her. At last, the skin changer turned away to join his mate.

Fíli glanced at her, a troubled look flashing across his face before being quickly subdued. "I just..." He made a thoughtful sound. "I guess it's just been weighing on me pretty heavily. That Uncle's gone, and I'm supposed to assume his mantle. Only... I don't know how."

When he turned to look at her again, there was something verging on confusion and remorse in his eyes. "All I know is trusting too deeply is what got Thorin into trouble. He'd been so wary all his life, and then... then he gave Dain another chance. He softened. Now the crown is sitting on Dain's head, and Uncle is...."

He sighed unhappily. "We can't trust anyone, Ori. We just can't."

Ori felt a stab of grief, but it didn't seem connected with their dead companions. She felt as though she were losing part of the dwarf she fell in love with. Reaching out hesitantly, she took his hand and drew him closer.

"Don't let it change you, Fee. You're brave and good and strong and kind... and if it came to it, you would make a good king."

Fili's glance at her held hints of doubt, but at the same time seemed mildly encouraged. "You mean it? You're not just... saying that?"

Ori half-laughed at him. "Love, if I didn't believe you could do it, I'd think of other ways to cheer you up besides lying to you."

A faint smile lit up the blond's face, and he squeezed Ori's hand. "As long as I have _your_  trust, it's enough to go on. Truly."

Ori noticed he seemed more relaxed now. The tension in his face was eased, and his eyes were softer and less strained-looking. "I'll try to be better about," he lowered his already quiet voice significantly, throwing a glance at Gwinir's back, "well, you know. I really will."

Gwínir turned his head a little and called to them without actually looking back. "Don't fall behind. We have many miles to go before nightfall."

Ori huffed faintly and gave Fíli's hand a squeeze. "Do your best. That's all anyone can ask."

Fíli's expression upon hearing the elf's admonishment would have better suited hearing the buzzing of a persistent gnat. "It's not going to be easy," he muttered, but left it at that.


	17. Thorin; Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Co. take their rest on the River Anduin, or what rest there is to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to apologize for the unplanned hiatus. I ought to have warned you guys before disappearing. Since our last post, Loki has finished her application to that costume school in New Zealand I was telling you about, and I got a second job (which I started on the 3rd of this month, full-time), AND I moved into a new house (which was why my computer was packed and unavailable for posting this chapter on the 1st). 
> 
> As of right now, I still don't have my computer unpacked and even if I did, I have no internet in my new house, so we'll just have to play it by ear. Updates may slow to once a month a little while. In the meantime, Loki and I will do our best to keep building up that buffer. 
> 
> I'll try to get something ready to post in the next couple weeks. If anyone is interested, I'm working on a Choose Your Own Adventure/Romance story on the side. It can be found on my blog, firesidequest.blogspot.com/ under the title "Into the Forest."

"Any way of preserving these for... later on?" 

It turned out the fishing went entirely better than expected, and not only did the group have enough to satisfy themselves, but some to spare. All in all, the mood of the group significantly improved (roughly at the same rate their bellies were filled).

"Could try smoking it." Glóin answered his son's question, frowning slightly as he picked at the bones of a trout on a large leaf he was using as a makeshift plate. It was clear he knew absolutely nothing about the process and was hoping someone else might chip in.

Thorin stood looking on, arms crossed. Some of the trouble was solved, some of his responsibility eased. Now it remained only to rest, lay low, and gather what supplies and food they could before their course led them on once more into the wild. 

"We'll need other food, too," Billa pointed out. "We'll exhaust our supplies in a day or two at this rate. Some flour would be perfect. I could make traveling cakes." It was easy to see the prospect greatly excited her.

Glóin shrugged. "We don't have any money left. What do you suggest we trade?" 

"Services," said Dori, as though insulted by the obviousness of the answer. Thorin shook his head, nudging the last third or so of his fish toward Billa, who seemed unwilling to complain for the moment. 

"We can't delay long. Dain's people could be coming this way."

"Then offer the Company as an escort," suggested Nikû. Thorin saw some of the others turn to look at her curiously. She explained, her hands busy gutting and filleting the extra fish. "A band of traveling warriors isn't uncommon. If there are folk here who want to travel deeper into Gondor, we can offer them safety in numbers in exchange for fair payment or supplies."

"And if they betray us after we've arrived in Gondor?" Dwalin frowned as he tossed a fish skeleton in the river. "What makes you think Dain's men won't follow us there?" There was another concern Thorin could see plain as day on the hulking warrior's face, though he wouldn't, perhaps, voice it.  Weaklings. More weaklings to protect .

Bofur was the next to speak up, though not to answer the question raised. "And besides, what makes ye think any of 'em'll trust us? Gimli and Glóin told 'em we were mercenaries who ran into trouble along the way, and ye t'ink we can expect 'em te feel  safe with us?" He shook his head slowly, looking slightly incredulous. 

Nikû shrugged slightly, tossing fish guts into the river. "If you have a better idea, I'm all ears."

"It'd be best, I think, to take a day's rest here." Balin's tone was calm, and the Company seemed to relax a little around him. "If we happen to think of a better idea between now and the time we leave, then all's the better. If not, we're none the worse off for the rest."

So rest they did, each in his or her own way, though they kept a constant sentinel. Gimli and Glóin were sent once more into town to barter a basket of fish for any dried goods they could find, and put the word out about the "armed escort" further into Gondor.

Dori managed to brew a sort of tea from a plant near the river, though few besides him were brave enough to sample it. 

"I tell you, I know my herbs well enough," he insisted, but the water boiling in a small saucepan over the glowing coals of the fire did not tempt the others. He was clearly a bit insulted. "Trying to bring back a bit of culture, and what do I get for my efforts? Well, suit yourselves." 

(When he did, in fact, "sample" his tea, it was clear from the look on his face he was doing all he could to play down just how awful it tasted.)

Dwalin and Nikû kept busy fishing, since they'd given up the last of their catch. The dwarrowdam had made another hook like the last, and though the fish seemed to have grown a bit wary now, the two dwarves were still getting a few bites now and then and the occasional landing. Bait came in the form of some small red berries they'd found on a bright green bush along the bank. Probably not too edible, but the fish had been wild about them. 

Thorin, meanwhile, took the first watch so Balin, Bofur, and any others who wished to could sleep. Billa looked tired, Thorin noticed, but he was unable to persuade her to rest. 

"I'll be fine, Thorin, honestly." She smiled, curling up beside him where he sat a few paces away from the group, face toward the town. "We've been on the run for so long, I'm not throwing away our peace and quiet on sleep." She yawned. "Not just yet, anyway." 

The dwarf sighed faintly, and reached down to stroke her hair, running his fingers through her thick brown curls. She swatted at his hand, a smile tugging at her lips. 

"Stopit. You're trying to put me to sleep." 

He chuckled, letting his hand drift to her shoulders, rubbing her back gently. Even through the roughened, torn fabric of her coat, he could feel the bones of her shoulders. That made him pause. He didn't like the reminder of her suffering. Under that fabric were burns, cuts, bones nearly poking through her skin.... He didn't like it. 

"You're brooding again."

Thorin's brow creased a little. "What?"

"You know what I mean." 

"I was only... thinking." 

"Worrying, you mean." Billa sat up so she could look him in the eyes. "Thorin, you can only control so much. All this guilt, this responsibility... it's eating you up. You need to do the best you can, and let the rest go." 

"I don't know what you mean." The dwarf found himself midway between perplexed and annoyed. "Until this Company is out of danger, this will be my responsibility. My burden to bear. I don't see how you expect me to just... release it. It's not that simple." 

Billa made an enigmatic gesture. "Yes it is. It's so much simpler than you make it, Thorin. We know you can't make the rain stop or the food multiply or the things that want to kill us just disappear. You don't have to be the end-all, be-all. You're our leader, not our god." She seemed to be pleading with him, trying so hard to convince him that she spoke the truth.

Thorin scoffed slightly. "I might as well be their god. If I lead this Company astray, it could cost everyone here their lives. Do you know what that kind of responsibility means, Billa?" 

He shook his head, running a hand through his short beard. "I am to blame for what happened in the old mining caves; I don't aim to lead us into anything like that again, either through letting my guard down, or letting sentiment cloud my judgment. If that means I lose a bit of sleep, so be it."

"Sentiment?" Billa sounded almost shocked, and Thorin felt the slightest twinge when he recognized sadness in her expression. "Isn't sentiment why you're doing it? Because these dwarves mean something to you? Because  I mean something to you?" She sat up properly now, and laid a small hand on his arm. There was fear in her face now. 

"This Company, they're my family. I don't have anyone else. Couldn't you let me help you, Thorin? I could keep watch, at least. I know I'm not much good for anything else."

Thorin's jaw tightened a little. "I'll do it. You might as well rest while you can. We've a long journey ahead of us."  And we can't have anyone lagging behind. That was the subtext, anyway. 

This seemed to awaken the halfling's temper, and she began to frown up at him. "Thorin, please let me help. I'm not completely useless - don't treat me like I am. I thought we'd gotten past this," she continued. "I thought I'd proved that I could handle my share of the work when I got you out of Thranduil's dungeons."

"I said I'll do it." A note of stubbornness crept into Thorin's words. She was beginning to get under his skin. Couldn't she see she hadn't been as reliable lately? She'd been exhausted, weak. He was trying to do her a favor, and she wasn't having it. 

She opened her mouth, he could see that she was going to argue - but even as he armed himself to retaliate, Billa seemed to deflate. Giving him one last, disappointed look, she laid back down, turning her face away from him. 

"Fine."

He could see he'd been less than delicate with her, considering her desire to help, but she didn't  understand . He couldn't make her understand without causing her more unnecessary guilt and pain.

"Billa, I..." He changed his mind before he'd finished speaking, clearing his throat to mask his hesitation. No. He couldn't. Couldn't tell her. "I think you need to rest. That's all." 

The hobbit grunted, but said nothing. Thorin didn't like to see her upset. This, however, was preferable to the alternative. If he told her... no. This was better. 

"Go to sleep, Billa." Things would look better for all when she was better rested.

Gimli and Glóin returned after an hour or so. It was a small town, and Thorin hadn't supposed it would take them long to finish their business. Both looked rather optimistic, so he assumed before they'd even reached the camp that things had gone reasonably well.

Gimli was carrying a small parcel, burlap-wrapped, beneath his arm, and Glóin had the empty basket. 

"Two families interested so far," Glóin reported, then lowered his voice when he noticed the sleeping hobbit beside Thorin. "And they're spreading the word. Seems this isn't all that uncommon."

"Here's the flour for Miss Baggins," Gimli whispered, offering the parcel. "I'll just... set it here." 

Thorin gave his companions a grateful nod. The flour would improve Billa's temper, if nothing else. He was sure that she would be in a better mood to at least pretend to understand when she woke. He looked down toward her as the others moved away and noticed, with a peculiar clenching sensation near his heart, that she'd gone pale, was twitching uneasily in her sleep. 

He recalled a night, deep in the sweet-smelling hay of Beorn's house, when he'd been woken by the restless stirrings of a hobbit lass he hadn't yet grown to love (or at least, he hadn't admitted it yet). Now, looking down at her, he felt a little twinge of longing for those days, when things were more straightforward. 

"No," she mumbled, barely audible over the low murmur of voices as the others went about their business. "No, don'... please...." Thorin put a hand on her shoulder, but the halfling twitched violently under the weight of it, face scrunched in apparent fear. 

"I didn' mean ta steal it... jus' tryin' ta help. Don' leave. Don' leave."

Silence. Silence in which Billa's pathetic, breathless whimpers could be heard clearly. Glóin and Dwalin, still at a prudent distance appeared to hear nothing. Balin and Bofur, however, nearer at hand, did, and turned their eyes on Thorin, half expectant and half unnerved.

Thorin's face noticeably drained of color. The memories resurfaced in the form of feelings, not images. Horror, helplessness, betrayal, uncontrollable rage. He'd not been himself. It hadn't been him. But then... she'd taken it. She'd  stolen it. Given the Arkenstone to Bard. To  Thranduil . Beneath the guilt lay a thing he'd not expected, and it might have been equally strong. He didn't understand it completely. It confused him. 

But the others had noticed now, and it wouldn't do to be seen so out of countenance. "A dream. It- this... happens. She'll be alright." 

Bofur frowned slightly with concern, nodding, but Balin didn't seem quite so easily satisfied. 

"You never mentioned she was still tormented by... what happened at the gate." 

"Perhaps because it's none of your concern." 

At this Balin withdrew slightly, giving his king a wary, reproachful look. Thorin knew it to be harsh, but he was tired of Billa's every sufferance being laid at his door, not only by himself but by others. 

Never by her, though, whispered a very faint voice, and he pushed it aside. No, Billa never seemed to blame him for pain, fear, or discomfort. But that didn't change the facts. He renewed his grip on her shoulder and gave the halfling a gentle shake. 

She woke with a start and sat up too quickly. He could see a nauseous expression cross her face, and allowed the confusing turmoil be replaced with concern for her and their child. Mahal's beard.  Their child. The idea still staggered him. 

"You were having a nightmare," he told her gently, striving for sufficient tenderness of tone to mask everything else. 

"Thorin." His name was a strangled whimper, and she buried her face against his shoulder, clinging to him.

"I'm here. I'm not leaving," he reassured her gently, his voice soft. "It was just a dream." He glanced at the others again, and was displeased to find them, once more, staring. 

"Promise me you won't," the halfling pleaded, a little too loudly for his comfort. "Please. I won't do it - I won't steal from you again. Ever." 

"You're rambling, Billa." He had half an inkling she wasn't quite fully awake, didn't know where she was. "The Arkenstone is gone. To the depths of the Lake. It's been months." 

He could feel her shaking and panting, but it took her a moment to answer. Lifting her face from his shoulder, she looked up at him, blinking uncertainly. 

"It's gone," she whispered. "It's gone, and you're... you're not leaving?" He could feel her hands fisted in his tunic, and glanced down to see her knuckles like white buttons against the dirty blue-grey of the fabric.

"Billa." Thorin shook his head slowly. "Look around. We're not in Erebor. Not anymore." 

As she complied, realization rushed into her face. "But I- oh. We aren't, are we? It felt so real. I've never... I haven't dreamed like that in a while. Not since...."

"Not since that night a few weeks before the Coronation. I remember." It seemed an eternity ago, now. Everything before the banishment did. He could tell she was embarrassed, more aware of the quizzical eyes of the others.

The halfling glanced at Balin and Bofur, who had now been joined by Dori and Nikû and Gimli, all looking at her with concern. Her face flushed darkly and she stood up, mumbling a polite excuse as she turned away.

Thorin watched her quietly, ignoring the others. He should have expected this sort of thing sooner than later. She'd been through too much these past few weeks to come through undamaged. They all had. 

After a moment, he looked back over his shoulder, mild irritation in his eyes. "You have other business." His voice wasn't loud, but very stern.

All but Balin turned away once more. The white-haired dwarf moved closer, a disapproving look on his scantily bearded face. "Thorin, a word?"

The dwarf king scowled, but moved a little away from the rest of the group so he and Balin could have some privacy. Still, he kept an eye on Billa as she moved toward the river. 

"What?" Thorin's tone was impatient, but Balin didn't seem to take any notice of his irritation.

"I understand you are very private about your... relationship with Billa. I don't want to encroach on that, but Thorin," he put a hand on his king's shoulder and sighed, glancing away briefly as though he very much regretted the necessity of this conversation, "you need to understand. She's not just your burglar anymore, not just your One. You can't expect her to hold up the way she did before. She's... in a delicate state." 

Thorin felt a surge of anger that he knew was almost completely unfounded. Balin was only trying to help. The implied criticism stung deeply, though, and he couldn't completely dispel his frustration as he answered, somewhat more harshly than maybe he ought to have. 

"You think I don't know that? I've been making as many allowances as I can - she's the one that's insisting she needs to take on extra duties." There, he forced himself to stop. Continuing would only reveal what he didn't want to face. Honestly, he didn't know how to care for his One. What if Hobbits were different than Dwarrowdams in this, and even if they weren't, Billa was nothing like Dis. Her pregnancy could very well be as widely different from his sister's as their personalities were. Thorin shook away these thoughts and frowned as his old friend. 

"I'm already doing all I can."

"Alright, lad, alright." Balin nodded quickly, putting a stop to Thorin's attempts to explain himself. "I know you're doing all you can for her. It's  you I'm more concerned about." The older dwarf glanced away again, which Thorin took as a sign the topic was once again going to become uncomfortable. 

"I've a notion this is going to cause strife between you before the end. It may... change her, this. Change her in ways you're not expecting."

"Change her?" Thorin wasn't sure whether to laugh at the ridiculousness of the suggestion or to demand what sort of changes he meant. As he recalled (and it was painful to bring up such memories) Balin's wife had born him a child some years before the Dragon had come, and he'd lost both in the First Desolation. "Well... of course she'll change. This sort of thing changes everyone." Secretly, he thought it unlikely, though. Billa was the same now as she'd always been, though perhaps stronger than he had thought when they left the Shire.

Balin seemed less certain. "Just... try to be understanding, and..." He shifted uncomfortably. "Don't argue with her unless it's truly important. You can trust me on that." 

Now, with a feeling of indignation, Thorin attempted to settle his outward composure. 

"I never have," he replied, voice low and serious. "I won't be getting into the habit now."

A twitch of Balin's snowy brows suggested mild disbelief. "Just... something to think about, lad. No cause for offense."

"I'm not offended." Thorin effected a light shrug, sending an all too familiar glance Dwalin's direction. This time it meant something to the effect of, "please come collect your brother." 

Judging by the promptness with which Dwalin responded, he and Glóin had finished their conversation long hence, and had instead been observing Thorin for some time. The dwarf king wasn't sure whether this irked him or not, but decided to leave well enough alone as Dwalin escorted his brother away under some pretext or another. 

Returning to camp seemed only an opportunity to be stared at. Assuring himself that this was a chief reason in his decision-making process, Thorin turned toward the river, where Billa sat on a little stretch of grass very near the bank. Her ears twitched a bit, stirring her curls as she turned her head slightly. 

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Thorin," she said softly, still looking out over the water toward the distant form of the Lonely Mountain.

"Nothing is wrong with you. You had a nightmare. It's not the first time."

"But it was so vivid." Billa glanced at him, a mixture of fear and shame in her eyes. "And I haven't dreamed about... that. Not in a long time." 

Thorin wished she wouldn't dwell on it. It was, at the least, an extremely unpleasant memory. 

"You're exhausted, Billa. In the past few months, you've endured more than most might in a lifetime." He settled beside her, following her gaze to the Mountain. He'd hoped, once upon a time, never to have to see it at such distance again. 

She shifted slightly to lean against him, and he slipped an arm around her.

"I think it's best you don't place so much weight upon a dream - any dream - had under such conditions." 

Billa sighed heavily, turning her face away from the Mountain and pressing her cheek against his chest instead. "You're right. I know you are. It's just so hard."

Thorin nodded and gave her a little squeeze, letting her know he was still there with her. Balin's warning seemed silly now. Billa wasn't any different. She was just strained, that's all. They all were. Things would get better as soon as they were settled somewhere safe. Somewhere the Mountain didn't loom over them quite so threateningly. 

"Will we ever go back?" Billa's question was almost plaintive. "We worked so hard to win your home back...."

"That remains to be seen. The real question, I suppose, is whether or not I would lead an army of those loyal to me against Dain. Risk the lives of my people to secure my rightful place as King Under the Mountain." It was a difficult thing, really. Dain wasn't evil. He wasn't particularly  good either, but at least he respected the ancient laws. To risk civil war simply to unseat a usurper... that was a difficult dilemma. 

The idea of another war hadn't apparently occurred to Billa. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers and her face went rather pale and she shook her head violently. 

"No more fighting. Please. Promise me you won't do that again."

Thorin regretted he couldn't offer such assurances. "It may be I have no choice, love. It's not that simple. Dain may bring war upon those still loyal to me whether I desire it or not. As long as I am alive and there are those who support my kingship, his reign is threatened." 

"But you won't start it? Promise you won't start a war?" She seemed nearly desperate on this point, a frantic light in her dark eyes.

Thorin hesitated. "I have a duty to my people, Billa. How if I left them beneath the rule of one who would mistreat them, pervert everything the renewed kingdom was supposed to be?" 

He sighed, running a hand through dark, shaggy hair. "I know it is... difficult. I promise you I will exhaust every option available to me before I consider...." He trailed off, the remaining words sticking in his throat. 

Even this wasn't enough. Billa's knuckles were turning white again, holding on to his shirt so hard he was afraid she might hurt herself. He could feel her shaking, and looking down at her, in the shadow of her pale neck, he could see her pulse beating frantically just under the skin. 

"I can't lose you again," she insisted brokenly. "I can't. It would kill me."

This was very difficult, Thorin decided. Not that it was ever  simple , but in all his life before, decisions had had fewer factors weighing on them. He'd never imagined anything could stand so squarely between him and his duty. 

"I'll... do all I can, Billa." That was the best he could offer. That and the warmth of his hands, closing around hers, softening their grip, consoling in ways words fell short. 

They sat a while like this, neither saying a word, watching the river rush by, the shadows of clouds glide gently across the greensward on either side of the bank. All was quiet and peaceful once more.

It was Glóin, finally, who pulled them away from their respite, the heavy tread of his boots announcing his approach behind them.

"They're on their way, Thorin. Looks like quite a group, too." 

Thorin turned to look back at the village. Indeed, there was a sizable group of villagers heading their way, about a dozen or so individuals, mostly young males. Several of them were carrying extra sacks, and Thorin's spirits rose at the thought of supplies, fair payment and fair work. 

"Thorin... what about me?" Billa gave him a concerned look. "I'm not a dwarf. How are we going to explain that?"

Thorin gave her a playful half-smile. "You'd best run to your mam, hadn't you?"

As if on cue, and evidently masked by the noise of the suddenly alerted Company, Nikû appeared, reaching down to pick up the unfortunate hobbit. 

"But Thorin- the  entire way?" Billa looked positively distressed. "I can't playact being a dwarrow for that long." 

He watched as Nikû picked her up, feet dangling, and set the hobbit on her hip. Feet. Those could be a problem. Thorin glanced about for Dori. He would be able to think of something. 

"You'll be alright, Billa."

And suddenly, there was Dori. Was he going deaf, or were the approaching humans really that loud? 

"These will have to do for now," he said apologetically and handed a small bundle to the halfling. They were thick cloth foot-coverings, loose enough to cover Billa's large, hairy feet.

Billa's cheeks flushed crimson, but she made no protest as Thorin quickly assisted her in putting them on, cinching them tight about her ankles. 

It looked ridiculous, somehow. Unnatural. The dwarf king had the good sense not to say anything, but had to move off quickly to fend off the smile that was threatening to spread across his face.

One of the eldest humans, grey-haired and slightly balding, had stepped to the fore of his group, an expectant look on his face. "You must be the leader?" he asked as Balin passed by. 

The white-haired dwarf chuckled good-naturedly. "Thank Mahal, no. That'd be him, over there." 

All eyes turned on the relatively young and scantily bearded dwarf king, and Thorin worked hard not to appear uncomfortable. He'd had enough interactions with humans to know he'd never been an impressive specimen of dwarvenkind in their eyes, being altogether too tall, slender, and fair-featured. He was going to have to take great pains to earn (and maintain) their respect.

The man who seemed to speak for his group squared his shoulders a little. "I see. And... would you object to a few questions before we get too far ahead of ourselves? We don't know much about you lot, and some of us have had... rather bad dealings with dwarves in the past." 

It was a fairly reasonable concern, really. Sensible. As backwater as this village was, this man seemed astute enough. And well-spoken. 

Thorin nodded slightly and crossed his arms, unconsciously taking on a posture he and Dwalin both used when they wished to impress on their audience the intimidating physical power they had at their disposal. 

"Very well. What concerns have you?"

The man seemed a bit more impressed by Thorin after hearing him speak. "We wish to know what assurances you can offer concerning our safety. Whether you're decent folk, as these messengers claim, or brigands intent on robbing us once we're out in the wild and leaving us to die. Many of these good people have family who went before them into Gondor, and some sent messages about these 'mercenary escorts'. Not recently, mind you, but it has happened." 

The man indicated the others behind Thorin. "We'd like to know a little more about you, and the members of your party. What experience they have. You don't look like the mercenaries who came through here before. None of them had families and children with them." He nodded toward Billa. His tone wasn't precisely that of interrogation, but it had much of the force and edge of hard questioning. It was clear he wasn't about to blindly lead his people into anything.

Thorin's estimation of the man rose, as did his respect, and he nodded. As much of the truth as they could afford would be the only comfort he could offer. 

"Your concerns are legitimate. We were not always mercenaries. We sought a home in the Mountain, yonder," he nodded toward Erebor, and it wasn't without some appreciation for irony that he continued, "but suffered some... differences with the new King. We gathered what we could and left, only to meet with further trouble."

"Aye, an' it was just our luck that the craven bastards that ambushed us an' stole our supplies caught us by surprise." Dwalin's interjection wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. Thorin turned a look on his comrade, who shrugged discontentedly. A glance at the humans showed a roughly equal divide between sympathy and caution. 

"You were ambushed, then? By whom?" The man seemed reluctant to take them at their word. The dwarf king couldn't honestly blame him. 

"Some of the men of Laketown. I was made to understand they hold Dwarves responsible for the destruction of their home by the dragon, Smaug."

"Ah. I see." The man nodded, seeming reasonably satisfied. "A disturbing event in any case. One can hardly blame them. From the news we here received, it seems the return of the King Under the Mountain heralded both the end of the dragon and their little town." 

He shook his head slowly. "So many lost. So many... innocent."

Thorin felt an uncomfortable and very familiar stab of guilt, though his face betrayed nothing. "It was, indeed, unfortunate that the dragon chose to exact revenge upon those who had done nothing to anger him." Smaug's cruelty had been the end of Laketown; Thorin's return was but the catalyst. Still, it was as difficult a truth to swallow as ever, and offered little comfort.

The spokesman for the little group seemed to relax slightly, as though Thorin had passed some form of test. Whether he had read grief in his face or simply liked the answer the dwarf had given was unclear. For the moment, Thorin was unwilling to question it. 

"Tell me more of your company. Where are you headed?"

Thorin shook his head slightly, relieved that they had moved past their former subject. And while honesty would still serve, he thought a little ambiguity wouldn't harm things as they were.

"We hadn't decided on a final destination, yet, but I've heard tell that business is good in Gondor."

The man's bearded face seemed to ease out of its suspicious frown, and one of the younger men tapped his arm, silently requesting permission to speak. He was a swarthy lad, perhaps telling of blood from the Far Harad in some small amount. 

"Would you be going as far as Rohan?" he asked nervously. "I was hoping... if it wasn't out of your way...." He trailed off, watching Thorin anxiously. The dwarf didn't much like his manner, but knew he had an impression to make. Personal opinion wouldn't enter much into the matter.

"I doubt it, but there is always the possibility." Thorin had no such plans, and couldn't imagine veering that far aside simply so a boy could visit relatives or whatever business he might possibly have so far afield. 

The lad seemed undeterred. "I'll go with you as far that way as you're going, then." 

"As you wish." Thorin turned away, motioning that Balin should handle the remainder of the questioning. There were preparations to be made, and the older dwarf had always been better at diplomacy anyway.

As expected, the kindly Balin easily charmed the unconvinced, and before long, all members of each group had been introduced, so far as Thorin could tell, and planning began. Balin drove a hard bargain and still managed to come off looking as though he'd done  them a favor. The Company would receive ample weaponry, supplies, and a bit of coinage in exchange for their services. 

Thorin sighed inwardly, tending to the last of the cooking fish. So it was settled. Things were in motion, and they'd be leaving soon. To what end and purpose, he couldn't say. 

He sneaked a glance at Billa, noting she staring back at him, looking rather peeved as Nikû bounced the poor hobbit gently on her hip. 

Sorry , he mouthed. 

You'll pay for this , she returned, and clearly didn't mean a silent word of it. 


	18. Tauriel; Ill News

The approach of soft, bare feet was almost entirely masked by the energetic exertions of her beloved. Kíli had been offered time at the Valley's forge if he desired it, and it didn't take an intimate knowledge of his preferences to read the delight on his face. Now, as he pumped the bellows, sweat glistening on his bare arms, Tauriel turned to greet their visitor.

Lord Elrond wore an expression more grave than he had since their reception from Erebor, and the fact that he had sought them out didn't seem to bode well for whatever news he brought. The elleth stood, pleased when it took her only a moment to recover her balance.

"My lord." She inclined her head, feeling unequal to bowing at the moment.

The creak and woosh of the bellows paused, and out of the corner of her eye, Tauriel could see Kíli lift his head. He made a subtle gesture with his dominant hand, and the elleth suppressed a smile.

"Kíli will be with us in a moment. I hope it's not serious, my lord."

"I suppose that remains to be seen."

Kíli quickly found a stopping place, and Tauriel tried not to look overly concerned when he sought her gaze before turning an expectant look upon Lord Elrond.

"It seems, Prince Kíli, that..." The dark-haired elf looked away briefly, as though he deeply regretted bringing such news. "That your mother, Princess Dís, is to take the hand of Lord Dain in marriage."

Tauriel couldn't imagine Kíli looking more stunned if Lord Elrond had just struck him across the face.

"Please tell me you're not serious." His devastation was palpable, and the elleth wasn't entirely certain why. What was so wrong about Dain, other than his keen dislike for her people? Other than his being the reason they were here and not in Erebor. The reason Kíli was separated from his family, perhaps indefinitely.

"I'm afraid serious is the only word for it." Lord Elrond couldn't have looked more sorry if he had been there to tell them someone had died. At her side, Tauriel could feel Kíli tense, his shoulder hot and sweaty against her arm.

"No. Uncle wouldn't stand for it."

The elleth thought she saw the elf lord wince, and put a hand on Kíli's shoulder, trying to comfort him. Or at least hold him in check. Honestly, she couldn't even breathe deeply anymore, and if Kíli decided to be reckless, she might not be able to keep up with him.

"The report that I received was that Princess Dís was to marry the King Under the Mountain."

Tauriel was certain the new shock registering on Kíli's face matched her own. "Wait... you mean...?" Kíli shook his head violently, his dark, sweat-damp locks bouncing. "Uncle wasn't crowned? He's not King in Erebor?"

The elleth could see the cogs of terrified speculation turning behind his eyes. Certainly if Dain was king, he wouldn't allow Thorin to remain in Erebor. What if he'd killed him? And Fíli... what if he'd killed Fíli as well, forced Dís to take his hand in marriage to better secure his right to the throne?

Elrond lowered his head sadly. "The messengers mentioned nothing of Thorin. I know only what my sight grants me - there is a heaviness concerning the fate of your uncle. I have felt it for some time. What it means, I do not know."

Tauriel had been privy to Thranduil's visions too long not to have some experience in interpreting them. Her fingers tightened around Kíli's shoulder, as much to steady herself as him. Thorin had seemed an unstoppable force to her, a boulder which could not be shifted, save by its own formidable will.

"But if you still feel the weight of his fate, then he must still be alive, yes? He hasn't fallen into darkness and not returned?" Into darkness. Tauriel's mind retraced the intervening months to the agonizing wait in Laketown, watching for any sign from the Mountain, even the faintest trace of smoke or a lantern light that would tell them what had become of their friends.

"I do not know." Elrond's tone was disconcertingly flat, and held little hope. "It is impossible to know for certain one way or the other. Only that," here he sighed, looking uneasy, "if he yet lives, he is in grave danger."

Kíli's features tightened in a way that made Tauriel wonder, briefly, if he might burst into tears. Silly thought, of course, but it was obvious he was holding back much (and possibly _most_ ) of what he wanted to say. "He can't be dead. He just... he can't."

For a moment, Tauriel felt a guilty surge of relief, that Kíli was here, with her, and not in danger with his uncle. Almost immediately, she dismissed the feeling. Kíli wouldn't thank her for feeling so. Instead, she turned her eyes on Elrond again.

"Is there anything we can do? Any way we can get more information?" Her voice was steady, long years of training keeping a tight rein on the emotions that might otherwise have showed on her face. But she knew what the answer would be before the elf lord gave it. Imladris' king shook his dark head sadly.

"Elves are not welcomed in Erebor, not even as envoys or tradesmen. There is little we can do but wait. I merely thought... you deserved to know." There was a flavor of pain to the words, and Tauriel understood that though they deserved to know, Elrond didn't think they deserved the pain and worry that came with it.

Kíli shook his head tensely. "No. I can't just... wait. I'll go mad." He met Elrond's gaze, his own surprisingly steady, almost convicting. "Could _you_ , Lord Elrond? Could you sit by idly, knowing your family was in danger?"

"Kee," Tauriel said gently, trying to preempt her husband's meltdown. She didn't blame him at all for how he felt, but he might later regret what he said beneath the weight of such emotions. He needed some time to process, some time to have sense talked into him. If he charged off now in this frame of mind, he'd be in no better shape than his uncle - wherever he was and whatever he was facing if he still lived.

There was pain in Elrond's eyes as he looked away, out over the vale, toward the shimmering waterfall near the outer walls of his own grand house.

"No, Prince Kíli... I couldn't. But I have, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

Tauriel wondered who he was thinking of with such guilt and sadness, what loved one had been in mortal danger while he, unable to help, had been forced to wait for news carried by others. Perhaps he had even waited here, in Rivendell, pacing the paths and memorizing the falls as he impatiently awaited word of a brother, or father, or son.

Tauriel was torn from her reverie when Kíli jerked out from under her hand. He wheeled, stomping back to the forge. Whatever he'd been making, the elleth was sure it would suffer the consequences of this new fear.

"Thank you for telling us, my lord," she said finally, and Elrond nodded.

"Keep a close watch on him, Tauriel," he advised softly. "He shares his uncle's blood. If he also shares his stubbornness... he may try something rash."

Tauriel had a passing thought that if Kíli did, indeed, "try something rash," she likely wouldn't be able to stop him in her condition.

"I will, Lord Elrond." The elleth bowed slightly. "Please let us know if you learn anything else."

The healer nodded, then turned wearily away, as though delivering such tidings had drained him of vitality. Tauriel didn't stay to watch him go. She returned to her seat near the forge, mostly shielded from its heat by a large, flat stone. In this little alcove, it felt safe to think.

Line by glistening, sweaty line, her eyes traced Kíli's furious body. He pumped the bellows violently now, his face creased into lines of anger and grief. He looked so helpless. Tauriel turned her gaze away a moment. This was infinitely worse that Laketown. Now, Kíli wasn't forced to wait on account of his own injuries (which had, in fact, been her fault), but was trapped here against his will by _her_ inability to travel. The first stirrings of restlessness began again in the depths of her being, rebelling against all those gentle, well-meaning voices that told her to rest.

In her belly, it felt as though the twins were grappling with each other.

Kíli turned from the forge at last, chest heaving, hair dripping. In his hand was the blade of what might eventually become a long dagger, angular, clearly of dwarven design. The tip of it was still glowing, and he quenched it in the cold water of a stone trough filled by one of Rivendell's many coursing channels.

When he finally looked up at her, Tauriel decided, somewhat abstractly, that he looked tired. Much of the fire had gone from his eyes, taking with it what little remained of his hope. The blade slipped from his hands, disappearing into the churning water with barely a ripple. He turned away.

Tauriel heaved herself to her feet with a sigh, moving to follow him from the room. Perhaps the worst was past. Maybe he would listen to reason now.

They returned to the guest rooms, and Tauriel noticed that, as usual, he checked his speed for her benefit, though he didn't, this time, offer her his arm. She'd refused it often enough that she figured this oughtn't have concerned her.

After he'd bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, silent all the while, Kíli collapsed on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. "What am I to do?" His mumbled question, Tauriel assumed, was directed mostly at himself, but she felt he nonetheless desired her input.

"Wait a day or two, love. If anyone can find out the truth of what's happened, it will be Lord Elrond. I know he's doing everything in his power."

"That's not _doing._ " Kíli's tone was so sharp he nearly sounded angry. Tauriel knew better than to think he was angry with her, but the sound still made her twitch. Her reaction must have made the bed tremble, because Kíli lifted his head slightly, freeing his eyes to turn on her.

"All I've done since leaving Thranduil's blasted dungeons is wait. Wait in Laketown, wait in the Mountain, wait in Rivendell. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of waiting and not _doing_ anything." What had started as a rant trailed off into something of a moan, and Tauriel watched as her husband crumpled backwards, sprawling on the soft mattress.

This time, she said nothing. The wisest course had already been proposed, and it only made Kíli more unhappy. All that was left for her was to wait for him to choose his course. Tauriel tasted the irony of that decision, and pulled her hair around her shoulder to toy with the intricate braids Kíli had so delighted in giving her that morning. Something of her discontent must have shown on her face, because the dwarf glanced at her and sighed.

"Don't look like that, Taur'. I know you feel the same way. We could make it back to Erebor in six weeks, and-"

"And what? Would you tell me to wait in the Healer's Hall for our children to be born while you went to duel with your cousin for the throne?"

"I don't want the throne, Taur'. It's not like that." Kíli's gaze traveled up the ceiling, as though he were seeking guidance, then returned to meet hers. "Look, all I want to do is find out what's happened, anything I can to help my uncle, my _brother_. Do you think either of them would rest, knowing I was in danger? You can't ask it of me. Please. I've got to help them."

Tauriel wasn't unmoved by the pleading, the desperation. That didn't mean she was going to let him rush off to be killed.

"Kee, I need you to explain what you're proposing. If Dain has killed your uncle and wrested the throne from him, what can you do? You think he'll listen to reason? And even if you challenged him to a duel, he has no cause to accept it." The elleth reached out to trace a finger down his scruffy cheek. "Listen to me, love. You can't do this on your own. You need allies, counsel. You need _time_ to think this through."

She noticed that, though he turned his gaze away from her again, he didn't move away from her touch. Taking this as encouragement (and hoping fervently that her persuasion was making a difference) Tauriel scooted a little until their legs were touching, and carded her fingers through his dark hair.

"I don't want more time. I want to know what's going on."

"Knowing won't make a difference, _meleth nin._ " She hesitated a moment, then continued, playing her trump as gently as she could. "And I can't go with you, even if you go. Traveling will be very dangerous for me."

Kíli turned an astonished, devastated gaze on her, as though this thought hadn't occurred to him. In a way, this reaction gratified her more than any protest could have.

"But you were just sparring with the Valley Guard this morning!"

"That's different. An hour or two of training isn't the same as walking or riding all day long." As much as she hated admitting this sort of weakness, it was almost a relief, in a way. It was safe here, and as long as her children were her first priority.... On the other hand, she knew herself well enough to guess that when Kíli no longer needed her support, she would be just as restless and unhappy as he was.

Kíli muttered a curse in Khuzdul under his breath. "So I'd have to leave you, then. That's the choice I'm faced with."

Tauriel hesitated a moment, trying to be sensitive. "Maybe not. Kee, let's wait at least until supper tonight. Lord Elrond knows of your dilemma. There may be another way, one we haven't considered."

As far as she was concerned, any sort of delay in taking action would be progress. If she'd thought it wouldn't completely destroy all future relations between Durin's kin and elvenkind, she'd have asked Lord Elrond to have her husband locked up until he came to his senses.

Kíli gave her a 'please stop making sense' look, and fell back onto the bed again, his hair spreading about his head like a dark nimbus. He did, however, consent to wait, at least until dinner, for which Tauriel was very grateful.

A short nap and a long, scenic walk later, they arrived together at Elrond's table, where their host was looking very seriously at the blond Woodland prince. It no doubt displeased Kíli that Legolas had remained so long in Rivendell, but Tauriel couldn't bring herself to honestly regard his stay with anything but gratitude at the moment. Her mercurial temper was like to view the same thing many ways in the span of a day, but just now she was glad for as much support as she could muster. If that was what she'd hoped for, though, Legolas' words as they sat down came as a severe disappointment.

"My father has summoned me home to the Woodland Realm."

Elrond nodded slowly. "Was there any particular reason?"

The blond elf pressed his lips together firmly, clearly troubled. Tauriel had little doubt there was a _very_ particular reason, and was almost tempted to speak out in protest. But Legolas respected his king in nearly all matters, and to ask him to do otherwise in this instance would be supremely selfish. She'd be asking him to stay - to defy his King - simply because she wanted him to.

 _Want, not need. I don't_ need _him._ Something inside her strongly reacted to the idea of needing _anyone_ , but needing Legolas was, somehow, worse. She couldn't say why.

After what seemed an eternal pause, not the least because the elleth had lost herself in thought, Legolas spoke up. "He is... concerned. My father. That is all I know." His tone betrayed him, at least to Tauriel. Thranduil knew, or at least suspected.

Elrond nodded again, gravely, and allowed a brief moment of silence before speaking again. "Then it is best you heed your father's wishes. If there is anything you need, Prince Legolas, let me know."

"You're just gonna let him go?" A youth with dark hair and grey eyes burst out of hiding, the potted bush he'd been sheltering behind losing a few leaves to the boy's haste. "But Ada, you can't!"

"Estel..." Elrond placed long fingers against one temple, and Tauriel thought for a moment the elf lord looked very nearly mortal. Parents the world over knew this feeling, she supposed. And soon, so would she. That was a startling thought.

"But Ada-!" The boy was nearly dancing with impatience. "Legolas, you promised we'd go hunting when the moon was full!"

The blond looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Estel. I have to go home. We'll go hunting next time I'm here."

Tauriel couldn't help but notice how well he connected with the boy, how almost... _fatherly_ he could be. Estel's shoulders slumped, the energy fleeing in the wake of disappointment.

"But... you  _promised_."

Legolas shook his head sadly. "It can't be helped, Estel. I promise I  _will_ go hunting with you. But it may be awhile before I can. You'll have to be patient. Will you do that for me?"

The boy's chin moved faintly in an almost imperceptible nod, and then he turned away.

"He'll be alright," Elrond supplied after Estel had gone. "He understands how these things work."

Tauriel returned her gaze to Legolas, speaking for the first time since they'd joined the others. "You're leaving tonight, then?" The softness of concern was in her tone, and Legolas clearly noticed.

"I've no choice, _mellon nin._ " A weak smile. "The message made it clear if I wasn't back within the week, he'd dispatch forces to 'collect' me. For my protection, of course." He scoffed lightly. "That's fatherly love for you."

Tauriel didn't know what to say to that. Thranduil wasn't the best at showing affection, that she well knew, but she was confident he had his son's best interests at heart, even if it was through his own paranoid lens. Kíli didn't seem at nearly as much at a loss as his wife.

"I'm sure it's real hard for you, having a father." The dwarf's tone was harsh. The elleth put a hand on Kíli's shoulder. She knew better than to think he would have said it without all the tension that now invaded their lives. That didn't stop her from strongly disapproving, though.

"Kíli, don't. Legolas meant no harm by it."

The dwarf's harsh demeanor eased a little, and he shook his head. "I know, I just..." If anything, the elleth thought he looked confused, like he was trying to puzzle something out and unable to. Like he didn't understand. "Don't mind me," he murmured finally, and Legolas smiled helpfully.

"I took no offense, Master Dwarf. I know this is a... difficult time for you."

A lengthy silence. Kíli smoldered, and held his peace, for which Tauriel internally thanked the Valar. The last thing they needed was a row between these two.

The meal was concluded with a minimum of talk between the guests, though Elrond made the occasional comment to one or the other of them. When the food was cleared away, Legolas asked their forgiveness and said his goodbyes, bowing deeply first to his host, and then to Tauriel and her husband.

"Farewell, _mellon nin,_ " she said softly. The urge to say something more formal, more meaningful, tugged at the edges of her mind, but Tauriel honestly couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound trite. So she watched Legolas go in silence, feeling his departure as keenly as if he had not been ordered to leave by the king he dared not defy.

Elrond touched her shoulder gently, and when she turned, he nodded toward the passage off the verandah.

"We have much to discuss, Lady Tauriel."

"Of course. Lead the way."

Tauriel shot a quick glance at Kíli to ensure he'd follow. There was that look, three parts anxiety, one part hope. He suspected Elrond had received more news. It seemed likely.

When they reached a high, unfamiliar balcony overlooking the valley (it had taken them a few minutes to get there), Elrond shut the door behind them and strode to the carved stone railing. His face was set toward the glowing peaks beyond, his hands crossed at his back.

"There has been... news." The elf lord's dire tone clearly shattered whatever hope Kíli had still been clinging to, and he had to support himself against the railing.

"Please." The dwarf's voice was faint. "Tell me what's happened."

Elrond bowed his head slightly and let out a soft sigh. "I have received word from a reliable source that..." The words seemed to stick in his throat. Tauriel felt dread thrill along every nerve, and gripped Kíli's thick wrist to steady herself.

"What? What is it?" Kíli seemed about ready to snap from the strain of not knowing.

"Thorin Oakenshield is dead." Elrond's deep voice was made somehow deeper by grief. Tauriel swayed slightly, this revelation striking her like a physical blow. Thorin, dead? _Thorin?_ It didn't seem possible.

Kíli sagged against the railing, his face gone deathly pale. "How?" he asked weakly, and it was as though the point of contact between his hand and Tauriel's was the only thing that kept them both upright. "How did it happen?" He croaked the words, apparently unable to summon the strength to speak normally.

"Brigands." Elrond evidently couldn't bring himself to look at either of them as he spoke, but kept his gaze fixed squarely on a point straight ahead. "Thorin and those loyal to him were attacked on the road, a few days after Dain banished them. They were held for ransom some two or three weeks, it seems, but..."

His cadence slowed. He clearly understood how difficult it was for Kíli to hear, let alone accept, such news. "But they tried to escape their captors and... Thorin was killed in the attempt. Billa, too, and several of the others. Those who were recaptured were slain shortly thereafter, when the brigands realized they were of little value for ransom. I do not know if your brother was among them, Prince Kíli."

Tauriel wrapped both arms around her husband, and felt that he was shuddering. Shock, grief, rage. No doubt any number of strong emotions were taking hold of him as he stood, speechless, shaking his head.

When the first of his tears fell, it grazed her hand on its way to the stone below. In the end, he didn't speak at all. This had been too much to bear, all too much. Extricating himself from Tauriel's embrace, he turned quickly to the balcony door and was gone.

The elleth was, perhaps, more stricken by her husband's reaction than the news itself.

"He needs some time alone, Lady Tauriel. Dwarves are not accustomed to grieving openly."

"And if he does something drastic? This Valley boasts an ample selection of bridges and balconies!" Tauriel didn't mean to snap at her host, but she hadn't really had time to collect herself yet.

"I have ensured that he is being watched discreetly by the Valley Guard. Should he try anything rash, he will be stopped." Elrond moved forward to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, and the elleth tensed, deeply tempted to echo her husband's example. She knew (in a disconnected, distant way) this urge sprang from hurt and fear, not good judgment.

"Prince Kíli will grieve privately, as is the way of his folk. Your way is not his."

_And how many times am I to learn this? How many ways am I to see how far the gulf stretches between us?_

But the elleth said nothing, all but numb to the tears streaming quietly down her face, the shuddering breaths that made standing upright so difficult. In one fluid motion, Elrond pulled her to his broad chest. The first Tauriel knew of it was her burgeoning stomach bumping softly against his body.

"There's no shame in grief, my child." His voice was deep and warm, his sadness almost as palpable as her own. "I will stand guard. Let the tears come."

"I... did not know any of them well." Why Tauriel felt the need to explain herself, explain her tears, she didn't know. Elrond likely understood her reasons better than she. "But Thorin was my king. I swore fealty to him, pledged myself to his nephew. That made him my family, whether or not he ever approved of me - he and Fíli both." She dabbed futilely at the tears, fighting against the tightness in her throat.

"Even so... it's more difficult to see him - Kíli - to see him... hurt like this."

"It's always hard to see the ones we love in pain," observed a deep, impressive voice. There was something of the grand and important about the words that drew Tauriel from her grief. In one way, she was nettled by the intrusion, for it was rude and thoughtless on more levels than she could put words to. On the other hand, it was a relief to have something so completely distracting on hand. It slowed her tears somewhat, and brought a measure of steel back into her resolve.

Straightening and pulling away from Elrond, the elleth scrubbed her face mostly dry and turned to face the interloper, only to pause, chagrined. It was a Man (not at all what she'd expected) with a neatly-trimmed beard and long white robes. In one hand, he carried a strong metal staff, and in this, reminded her strongly of Mithrandir, though better-groomed than the Grey Wizard.

"Lady Tauriel, this is Lord Saruman the White, the gentleman who brought tidings from Erebor." Elrond's tone seemed to indicate he, too, was somewhat scandalized by the intrusion, though he was too polite to say so. Tauriel bowed slightly, one hand on the curve of her belly, as though this might somehow improve her balance. After a moment, though, she was forced to look away. Distraction though he was, the elleth's grief ran deep, and wouldn't be stemmed simply by the appearance of a stranger.

"It was a heavy burden, to be certain," said Saruman softly, "but a necessary one. I usually refrain from interfering in... domestic matters, but the fate of the present world seems to turn on the loss of Oakenshield and his kin."

Tauriel disliked his distant, arrogant tone - but how often had she heard the same hauteur from Thranduil, a mask for the emotions he thought unregal or undignified?

"My lord Saruman," she said softly, working to hold her emotions in check despite her voice's attempts to betray her. "If you don't mind my asking... how came you to know of the fate of Thorin Oakenshield?"

It seemed a bit too bold, after the fact. Perhaps it simply came down to word choice. She could tell by the subtle flicker in Elrond's expression that he felt the same.

Saruman, though, seemed little affected. His tone was as patient, gentle and even as before. "It is given to the Istari to know the comings and goings of those whose fate is most entwined with that of Middle-earth itself. Suffice it to say, I keep myself... informed."

"Do not fear, Lady Tauriel," Elrond assured her. "The word and counsel of Saruman the Wise is to be trusted."

Again, like Thranduil. Or even Thorin, at times. Arrogant, haughty, cold, but not ill-meaning or unintelligent. But where exhaustion or strong drink could bare the heart behind the intellect in either of the kings she knew and trusted, this Wizard was a mystery to her. She trusted Elrond, though, and there was nothing haughty about him. A little superior at times, perhaps, but never without just cause.

Tauriel bowed her head, submitting to the counsel of her host.

"Do you know anything else of the happenings in the Mountain?" Only the slightest of anxious quavers shook her voice now, and her tears had slowed to a hot pressure behind her eyes. Saruman's beard twitched a little as he studied her. His expression was hard to read, foreign and enigmatic.

"I know that the kingdom of Erebor is unsettled. Particulars beyond that have been more than unusually veiled to me."

"And the doings of Dain do not concern the fate of Middle-earth? Why come _here_ after finding out Thorin was dead?" It was verging on rude, this question, but there was something... odd about his explanation. Something that didn't quite add up.

Saruman bristled noticeably at this, and Elrond stepped in hastily to cut off his defense. "She has been through much this day, as you know, Lord Saruman. She needs rest. And time to herself." He sent a warning glance Tauriel's direction that quite ended the elleth's impulses toward interrogation.

With a slight bow, she turned to go, grief and anger and confusion all bubbling a little too near the surface for comfort. She wanted to trust Elrond, to trust his word that Saruman the Wise was their friend, but every instinct she had set her ears tingling with distrust. Maybe it was just the turmoil of emotions making the world seem less friendly, but Tauriel was loath to disregard the instincts that had guided her so well up to this point.

As she left, the elleth distinctly heard Saruman turn to his companion.

"I see no need to call a full council, but I'd like to contact Gandalf and Thranduil, if possible. If there is to be trouble with the Dwarves, then their neighbors ought to be warned." His tone was almost pompous, and Tauriel suspected he'd said much of that for her benefit, just to sound important. But no, that was ridiculous and paranoid. The elleth put it out of her mind and made her way slowly to the chambers she shared with Kíli. He wasn't there, of course, but he would return when he was ready. She hoped.

It was at least three hours before the dwarf set foot in their room. Tauriel had been drowsing on the bed, and started fully awake at the gentle creak of the door. The light outside the windows had become the subdued, orange glow of lanterns, and she assumed most of Rivendell was now safely sleeping, or would be soon.

She'd thought about what she'd say, when he came back - rehearsed it, even. All of that sifted from her mind like flour the instant she saw his face. There truly were no words for the loss of close kin - especially this soon after the news.

The dwarf trudged to the wash basin and splashed his face a few times. Even then, she could clearly perceive the puffy redness in his eyes that meant he'd been crying, and probably very intensely at that.

He stood now in the center of the room, his arms listless at his sides. He looked lost, tired, as though he didn't have the faintest where to go from here or what to do. What anger or intent still simmered within him, the elleth didn't know, but she prayed the Valar any impulses toward rash action were now put aside, or forgotten altogether.

"Come here, love." The tenderness in her tone seemed somehow foreign. It was maternal, comforting, and reassuring.

Half to her surprise, Kíli obeyed. He settled beside her, resting on her shoulder as her arm slipped around him, and she felt some of the tension in his body fall away, released in a long outgo of breath. She stroked his brown locks gently, pressing his head into the familiar space beneath her chin. If she knew anything about her husband, it was that nothing calmed or relaxed him more than her fingers in his hair.

_Sleep, Kíli. For a few hours at least, forget all of this._


	19. Dís; Genuine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís and Dain are to be wed, and Dís has to deal with pre-wedding jitters in any way she can, without giving away her secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Long chapter. Don't sit down to read this chapter unless you have time to read two chapters. Maybe three. This chapter is over 9000 words long. Because we just couldn't help ourselves.

In the darkness of the mine, she could feel the movements of the dwarves on her left. She was on her way out, but the steady tromp of her boots neither quickened nor slowed. There was a guard at her heels, and though she was in no hurry to leave, there was also the worry that the guard might see something in her behavior that was either completely amiss or too close to the truth. Dís closed her eyes for a moment. She hardly needed them here, anyway. 

Her husband had made sure she knew her way through a mine, though she was sure if Thorin had ever found out about their midnight excursions, he might very well have taken an ax to various parts of Vili's body. The thought of Thorin made something in her chest squeeze a little, and the thought of Vili made something else twist painfully, but neither feeling was as intense as it might have been. Vili, after all, was already seven decades gone, and Thorin must be alive, because if he wasn't, then Nikû would have returned. 

"My lady, the tailor is waiting for you." The guard was speaking in her ear, keeping his voice low enough not to disrupt the stone-deep chant of the working dwarves. 

Dís sighed. "Yes, of course." Lengthening her stride a little, she turned her face a little more purposefully toward the steep upward slope that would take them to the base of the shaft, where the elevator mechanism would lift them back into the Mountain proper. 

The tailor. The dress. The ceremony. She was to be married in three days. In three days, she would be a wife once more, and no longer a widow. The idea was both thrilling and sickening. Mahal, if only she could be absolutely certain that what she was doing was the right thing.

The fitting session came and went. Despite her dislike for such frippery, things proceeded tolerably, and she walked out in the knowledge her wedding gown would be a splendid sight indeed, once the final touches had been made.

These final preparations done, she returned to her chambers to refresh herself. She was expected for dinner in an hour. Each meal together, each look of fondness, term of endearment, surprisingly gentle handhold or caress... she feared she would break from the strain of indecision, of having to pretend. 

Every passing day was more difficult. She found herself avoiding Dain, making excuses to be elsewhere - even, she feared, to the point of risking her designs. 

No. That wasn't acceptable. She was made of stronger stuff than that. She would not be conquered by such... common jitters. After she'd bathed, changed clothes, and braided her hair in plaits more elaborate than any she'd done in years, she spent a moment deliberately schooling her features before the mirror. Dain expected a happy bride, an eager bride. She would not disappoint. 

Her stride was swift as she moved toward the dining hall. Rounding the corner into the corridor leading to her destination, Dís nearly ran into a squat, muscular dwarf in dark leather armor. With a half-step that was more of a skip than she would ever admit, the dwarrowdam narrowly avoided a collision with the stranger. Hastily, she turned to face him, planting her feet firmly and giving him a moment to gather his wits for an apology. In her own halls, she might have apologized herself, but such behavior seemed like it would do her little good here. The Iron Hills dwarves, at least, thought some practices she'd picked up in Ered Luin were foreign and unpleasantly liberal. 

"My deepest apologies, ma'am," said the stranger in a voice like gravel. His beard was thick, full and dark, his braids showing him as a common sellsword from Ered Mithrim. That was curious, as she didn't remember any caravans from the Grey Mountains. "Though, beggin' yer pardon, I don' think you was watchin' quite as careful as ya could've." His eyes were crinkled with amusement, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. 

Dís decided she liked him. "I suppose that's true. Apologies." With a quick bow, she turned to go, glancing over her shoulder to see the stranger take up his former position once more, leaning against the wall and watching the corner as though waiting for someone. 

Dismissing the encounter from her mind, Dís turned her thoughts to her future husband. And as though summoned by the mere idea, there he was, waiting by the side door to the dining hall, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like an impatient dwarrow.

Dís smiled, bowing slightly before following Dain into the dining hall. The fire's warmth radiated throughout the room like a soothing wave, wearing away at her unease, despite the unfamiliar faces lining the tables and looking on expectantly. 

Side by side, the two doubtless looked every bit the united front Dain intended, he the upholder of Durin's laws, she the bearer of Durin's blood. These guests were here in advance of the wedding. To a dwarf, they stood, waiting until Dís and Dain had sat down before taking their seats again. 

Dain clapped sharply, which Dís found slightly off-putting. Perhaps it was an Iron Hills custom to signal the start of the meal? In any case, the guests, as if on cue, resumed their conversations, and the servants began to file in, bearing two trays each.

"I saw to it they prepared your favorites." Dain winked at her, a habit she thought looked quite put on, and one he'd overused of late. She wondered if he'd adopted it on someone else's recommendation in a bid to be... playful. This was quite put from her mind, though, when the servants began to uncover the silver trays and platters. 

The savory aromas were absolutely heavenly. Such opulence - such  _ richness _ \- befitted only the most important of occasions. 

"Unnecessary, my king, but I am nonetheless grateful." She graced him with a broad smile that had taken her some time to perfect; it was as foreign to her as the wink seemed to him.

After her first mug of ale and a bowl of absolutely perfect bean and ham-hock soup, Dís felt like her smile was much more genuine. She hardly had to work at all to keep the curve to her lips as she allowed herself to be served a cut of meat that threatened to fall off the bone as Dain set it on her plate. 

If anything, the dwarf took open pleasure in serving her, and when she touched his hand to stop him pouring her more ale, he turned very nearly pink. Dís could see he was genuinely trying to win her over, and there was, as far as she could tell, no ulterior motive to his actions. It was as flattering as it was confusing. 

"I trust you're enjoying yourself, my lady." It was more an observation than a question, and she glanced at Dain in surprise. His eyes were on her, and this time, he didn't wink or laugh or smile. There was a smile in his eyes, but not on his mouth, and the dwarrowdam thought this suited him better. 

"Very much, my king. You didn't have to do all this."

"I know. I wanted to." Dain's thick fingers brushed past hers where they curled around the handle of her mug. She couldn't help but feel he was finally being real. Genuine.

"I apologize if I sometimes seem... distant," Dís paused while a servant cleared away her bowl and replaced it with another, piping hot and smelling just as delectable as the last. "I'm not accustomed to such doting. It's been many years, as you know, since I've had anyone who cared about me as you do. The customs of courting... I'm afraid I've become a bit rusty." 

The dwarf huffed softly in agreement, as if to say 'you and me, both'. Dís felt a swell of appreciation for her betrothed, and looked away, feeling a smile rising unbidden to her lips. For a moment, she distracted herself with the food in front of her, which was in fact just as delicious as it smelled. 

"Perhaps, after our guests have been satisfied... we could sharpen one another's skills?" Dain's tone was hesitant, but not embarrassed, and not put on, as many of his questions had been recently.

Dís nodded. "Perhaps." It was difficult to tell just how honest she could be with him - at least, where it concerned their interactions. She knew well enough this... game (was it no more than that?) would be over swiftly if Dain learned even a fraction of the secrets she was keeping from him. 

The meal wore on, the guests becoming more boisterous and loud as the servants frantically refilled their mugs. The noise had practically reached a fever pitch when Dís finally made motions to excuse herself. Dain, naturally, acceded to his intended bride's wishes, toasting his guests before accompanying Dís from the hall. 

The two retired to the common room of Dain's lavishly appointed quarters. Servants lurked in the background, and Dain surprised Dís by requesting drink be brought as the two settled into sturdy, newly upholstered chairs near the fire (Dís recognized the patterned silk - Southern, quality, and very expensive). 

"Now, Princess." Dain sipped at his stout, while Dís merely held hers. "I won't mince words. You've given me your hand, and for that, I am grateful beyond words. What I want to know is... how does one win the  _ heart _ of the daughter of Thrain?" 

The room filled with the comforting smell of woodsmoke and silence as Dís turned over the question in her mind. It surprised her, to say the least, though on the other hand, it didn't. All of Dain's actions had pointed to this end, but somehow she'd still be partially convinced it was all just a political game. 

"That, Cousin... is a very good question." The dwarrowdam lifted her gaze to meet his, studying his face. How had Víli done it? How had he  _ charmed _ the stiff, serious, noble daughter of Durin into the laughter she recalled him coaxing so easily from her? But no... Víli's methods wouldn't work for Dain. He was too serious, too duty-bound... too much like her. 

The thought made her rethink her opinions of his motives. Yes, he had banished her brother, possibly to his death, and he had crushed the hopes of her sons, taken from them the inheritance they deserved. But the dwarf before her wasn't malicious. She couldn't imagine he'd done so out of spite.

"The heart of a woman is a mystery," sighed Dain, breaking her from her thoughts. "I never understood my first wife. You, though... Princess, you are everything a dwarf could ever want in a mate." He gave her such an admiring glance that Dís took refuge in her mug to avoid looking at him. 

"Female though I be, I am not so different from yourself." Dís set her mug in her lap again, still not looking at him. "I do not see much use in... pretense."

"Pretense?" Dain's tone wasn't offended, only curious. 

"Flirtation... coyness. I have always believed if a dwarf wants something, honesty is a currency far more valuable than charades. If a dwarf desires the heart of a woman, he will not secure it through words or gifts or... romantic gestures." 

"Then... how?" Dain seemed slightly deflated, though it was always difficult to tell with him. 

Dís hesitated a moment before replying, and wondered if the slightly glassy cast to her fiancé's eyes meant he would remember little of this conversation. Certainly, when Thorin got that look, all he had to show for it in the morning was a bad temper and a raging headache. 

"Be yourself. I'd like to know you for who you are. I'll be spending the rest of my life with you, after all."

The weight of the statement clearly took some time to penetrate Dain's haze of intoxication. The dwarf ran a hand through his impressive beard, whisking away a few drops that had clung to the coarse, greying hair. 

"Well, then. I suppose we'd best stop pretending. You know I'm not much for idle chatter and... affectionate tokens."

"And I don't require them from you. To me, your affection would best be demonstrated through your devotion to our people, and the duties of governance. I wish only to be side by side with you in your work; I am not a bauble to be brought out on certain occasions and otherwise hidden away." 

Dain's gaze had become sharp and clear, the mind behind them rallied from its stupor. "I'll do my best, my lady. I only ask that you..." He hesitated, and an expression of uncertainty, or doubt, stole across his grizzled face. "I only ask that you tell me, if I fall out of your favor."

This caught Dís off guard. Certainly, she hadn't expected that Dain so deeply sought her approval. 

"I will, my king, on one condition: you will not take offense if I do." She sipped at her drink, hoping to put him more at ease. This conversation was proving deeply insightful, and she hoped to continue it as long as it was so. "I am not petty. You know this to be true. We are, after all, much alike." Dís smiled faintly. "I will speak out only if I see you have erred gravely. On that, you have my word."

Dain looked deeply into his mug, which must surely have been empty by then. "Considering the number of outspoken dwarves I have about me to readily point out my... less grievous faults, I suppose I ought to thank you." He glanced up at her and there was a chuckle hiding in his eyes. 

This dry, self-effacing humor was refreshing, and Dís found herself at odds with her own feelings. Of course she couldn't trust him. That held true in all cases. But by Mahal's curly chest-hairs, she was honestly developing a  _ liking _ for this dwarf. The dwarrowdam wasn't sure whether to feel ashamed of herself or not.

There was some amount of shame, she supposed, in taking a liking to the usurper of one's own brother, and possibly the maker of his death. 

"Perhaps," she said finally, giving a slight nod. 

As tempting as it had been to continue the conversation, when Dain called for more drink, she began to think the evening may have run its course. If he expected to lower her guard by continuously plying her with spirits, he expected wrongly. 

"My king, I must decline. I've already had a good deal more than I ought." She waved the servant's pitcher away. 

Rather than seeming disappointed, as she thought he would, Dain looked abashed, and glanced at his refilled mug with an expression, almost of guilt. 

"I suppose... I've had enough also." It was a reluctant admission, but a true one nonetheless. After a moment more of consideration, the dwarf heaved himself to his feet. He was as steady as one might have expected, swaying a little as he turned to the nearest servant. 

"See that the princess is escorted where she wishes. If any harm befalls her, on your head be it." 

Dís stood, bowing politely to her host. "Thank you, my king. I have enjoyed our time together."

"As have I, Princess."

It was a strange thought, Dís decided as she and her escort moved off down the silent passage, that in a few days' time, she might well not be leaving these chambers at the waning of the evening. It remained to be seen whether Dain would seek his spousal rights, or whether he even had any interest to that end. She still wasn't sure how she felt about either potential. 

Her quarters had seemed empty, of late, in Nikû's absence, but she told herself it wasn't loneliness that drove her from her bed and to the forge, night after night. It wasn't seemly for a princess, surely, to wake having slept with her head on her workbench, but the quiet dark was unfriendly to a restless mind. She wondered whether Dain knew of her insomnia, and if he did, whether it might make him concerned for her well-being... or suspicious.

It wasn't Dain that woke her from her unsettled dreams. Dís sat up, one cheek smeared heavily with soot, her hands black with filings from her most recent project. A project which sat unfinished on the workbench, near her hand. 

The dwarf standing over her was the dark-bearded warrior with the Grey Mountains accent, the one she'd nearly run into outside of the dining hall earlier. Or was it yesterday? Dís was stiff and cold in ways she knew would feel even less pleasant later. 

"It's not yet dawn, Princess, but the workers will be here soon."

"Thank you." Dís sat up slowly, stretching out a moment to a soft chorus of popping joints. The project would be stowed away for later (it wasn't anything of much importance), assuming she'd ever be able to return to it. After the wedding, it wasn't clear just how her time would be spent, or whether she'd be able to slip away to the forge as often as she did now. 

Her gaze finally landed on the dwarf once more, this time with a certain curiosity. "You have a name?" 

The dwarf bowed slightly in assent, his many small braids falling forward over his shoulders. A mixture of metal and glass beads capped the numerous plaits, marking him as a glassworker of some repute, though Dís saw no family crest that she recognized, nor the four-stranded braids that would mark him as a brother, elder or younger. 

"Kuran, son of Goran, at your service." When he straightened, Kuran glanced over his shoulder to check the door. They were still alone, but his manner indicated that would end presently. "May I escort you to your chambers, milady?"

Dís stood, hastily tucking her tools and metal pieces into a small cupboard in a row of them beneath the workbench. Wouldn't do to leave everything lying about. 

As the two made their way toward Dís' quarters, the dwarrowdam noticed the corridors and gathering points were mostly deserted, and the dwarves she saw were primarily servants or guards. A curious thing, and she didn't know quite what to make of it. Too early yet for the Mountain to be so... empty. 

"What's going on, Kuran? Where is... everyone?" 

The dwarf seemed reluctant to answer at first, but eventually gave in with a sigh. "Most of the Mountain's been assembled in the Hall of Kings. His Majesty is dealing with a... bit of dissension in the ranks." Kuran shrugged, seeming uncomfortable with the idea. Dís felt a chill. 

"What sort of dissension? Speak quickly." Already, she was turning toward the Hall of Kings. What she looked like didn't matter. She needed to know what was going on, and why Dain had thought to do so without alerting her. Did he truly suspect her so much?

"There has been some  _ talk _ ." Kuran worked to keep on pace with her. "An isolated incident, really. Seems His Majesty was advised of it, and wants to keep it... isolated." 

"Stop being so cryptic. What sort of 'talk'?" Dís internally swore at the mincing speech of servants and guards. Didn't really matter, anyway, she supposed. It would only serve to confirm what she already knew. 

"Your pardon, Princess. I'll speak plainly. Some overexcited youngling said too much concerning the King's rise to power, and the banishment of your brother. He's to be made an example of." 

The words struck like stones, and Dís lengthened her strides a little. Her mind went immediately to the dwarrow she'd sent with Nikû, Glóin's son who was so steadfastly loyal to Thorin and confused and hurt by the situation in the Mountain when he finally arrived. No doubt this youngster was in a similar vein, and Dís could only imagine what she would have done, if it had been one of her sons and she were unable to stop this travesty. 

There is no love so fierce than that of a dwarf-mother, and there would never be a danger so imminent as an angry dwarrowdam. 

"Tell me everything you know, or on my father's grave I'll be using your ax when I defend that lad." 

Kuran went deathly pale and stumbled. The implications of using another's weapon were many and varied, but none of them were good. 

"That's all I know, Princess. The lad spoke out against the King and said he had been wrong to banish Oakenshield, nearly started a riot in the dining hall this morning."

They rounded a corner into another deserted corridor, but Dís could hear the murmur of many voices beyond the doors to her left. The Hall of Kings stretched the entire length of this corridor, and if she wanted to reach Dain, she'd need to get to the very end, ascend the stairs and enter through the side door to the dais. The dwarrowdam broke into a jog, face set in hard lines. 

"Princess, please.... At least stop and  _ think _ about what you're doing." Kuran managed to keep up with her, even as she increased her pace, though his tone contained distinct notes of panic.

"Don't presume above your station," Dís growled, and didn't slow. There would be no stopping her now, not if Dain had ten guards before the door and fifty behind it. 

"If you're going to have any chance at all of restoring your brother, you  _ can't _ show your hand now!" 

These words, hissed desperately at her ear, finally had an impact, and Dís slowed. "What did you say?"

Kuran's expression betrayed relief as his princess finally seemed to regain some of her good sense. Hastily, before she could change her mind, he explained, his voice lowered to a rough whisper.

"If you create a scene now, while Dain is only just making moves to tame those loyal to your brother, the entire Mountain will know where your allegiance lies, and you'll lose what support you may have garnered from the Iron Hills warriors. They don't know you yet. Give them the chance to love you as their queen before you demand their loyalty." 

Dís allowed her steps to slow and eventually stop as she considered. Kuran was speaking well above his station, but she didn't doubt his earnestness. Acting against one's king was no small matter, and this dwarf was neither her subject nor Dain's in the sense that their kin were. If this Grey Mountains warrior felt an allegiance to her brother, it was because Thorin had earned it by his deeds, not by blood. 

"Then what do you suggest I do?" Her determination was failing all at once, checked by fear and reason. She knew so little of this dwarf - to trust him on such terms... seemed very unwise. But he risked as much or more than she did; for a commoner to voice designs of rebellion against the king was treason, and he wouldn't have the benefit of noble blood to protect him. 

"I harbor no ill will toward our king, mind you," she added quickly. "But I would protect my people, whatever their opinions of him." 

After all, his earnestness might be directed toward another source. His own gain, perhaps, though she didn't know what he had to gain from this. That he could was a foregone conclusion. Dís longed for someone,  _ anyone _ she could trust completely, and wished she had Nikû at her side again. 

"Nor do I," agreed Kuran softly. "I have no wish to discredit either him nor yourself. If you are to act now, as you seem wont to do, my princess, I ask that you do so as a woman slighted, as a mother - not as a princess. Make it clear you protect your people, not your brother's reputation."

And had she not been thinking just that as she approached? Her resolve returned, and this time with clear understanding, unclouded by anger. 

The hall about them was empty, and as Dís turned to stride toward the niche where the stairs and ingress to the dais waited for her, she knew what she was going to do. She didn't need to be told how to act - a little bit of trust was all she required to have all the confidence in the world. 

"You will be at my shoulder, Kuran. The shield arm, if you please." They would make a statement. For now, she would choose to trust this dwarf, and if he didn't fail her, then perhaps she would test him again later.

"Yes, Princess." She felt him fall in as they turned the corner into the stairwell. There were two guards at the door. Both looked quite stunned to see a sooty dwarrowdam striding toward them, and one stepped forward to challenge her before he recognized her braids and the signet ring she flashed in his face. 

"Let me through. I would speak with the King."

"But milady-"

"I said  _ let me through. _ "

Seemingly unable to resist the force of her will, the guards moved aside, one shaking his head as though he knew even as he complied that he was making a mistake.

The opening off the antechamber revealed two things: Dain, seated on the throne with a crown on his head; and a young, fair-haired dwarf, flanked by guards and kneeling before him with his arms bound behind his back. The murmur of voices had ceased, replaced by expectant silence as the king spoke.

"...volatile nature of the days, and the dangerousness of what was said, I am left with little choice but to accede to the demands of my court." Dain stood, finally, stooping a little as he did to retrieve something hidden on the other side of the throne.

The silence became chill. Dís hesitated in the doorway, halfway stunned along with all the rest as Dain raised a heavy, wide-bladed ax. 

"Make the prisoner ready," he said softly, not the faintest waver in hand or voice. 

With her heart in her throat, Dís strode out onto the dais. The stone under her boots radiated strength through her legs, assured her that it would always be there. Every eye in the hall turned on her, and the dwarrowdam was only faintly aware of Kuran at her shoulder, in the place of her absent bodyguard. 

"I was unaware it was custom to deliver such punishment without calling a full council." Dís didn't find it at all difficult to make her tone icy with displeasure. "Your Majesty, I would speak with you." _ Privately. _ Unspoken though it was, her qualifier hung in the air like an anvil.

Dain's expression shifted noticeably. Surprise? Anger? She couldn't say for certain. The silence persisted a long moment, and she saw several of the advisors (she hadn't noticed them before, as they'd been standing where the throne hid them from her sight) exchanging dubious glances. 

The condemned youngling was looking at her, too, his grey eyes filled with mingled fear and wonder. 

The king nodded, finally, and the ax came to rest at his side as he turned away from the assembly. He moved past her, stride heavy and stiff, and she followed him into the antechamber. Kuran remained behind, clearly respecting Dís' unspoken request for privacy. 

Out in the hall once more, door shut behind them, Dain shook his head slowly, ax still hanging at his side.

"Princess... what are you  _ doing _ _?_ " Yes. She could tell for certain now. He was  _ definitely _ angry.

Dís drew her formidable temper about her like a cloak and spread her feet wide, prepared to fight. Whether it would be verbal or not was still quite up in the air. 

"I could ask the same of you. The first I hear of anything is that the entire Mountain has been called, save myself, and next thing, you're putting a dwarrow to death for saying something stupid. Are our children so easily replaced that you would kill them for the crime of being young and rash?" It all came readily to her. It was all too easy to imagine Kíli in the position of this grey-eyed, over-zealous youth.

Dain hesitated visibly, uncertainty weakening his resolve. "And what would you have me do? That 'dwarrow' called me 'usurper' before the entire dining hall - in the presence of honored guests and workers alike - and nearly started a riot." 

He shifted, his indignation returning in some measure. "You would have me let him off with a warning? Toss him into prison where he can continue to breathe his... treason and lies?"

"That dwarrow is someone's son. Someone's nephew. Possibly someone's brother. What if he was yours, Dain? Would you kill him then?" His name felt heavy on her tongue, and Dís reined in her temper a little. "I don't say he oughtn't be punished for his stupidity, but could you think of  _ nothing _ more suitable than death?" 

"If you were the one he had questioned, insulted-" Dain's earnestness was too real to deny. Dís cut him off. 

"Then I'd not make a martyr of him. I  _ know _ you're smarter than this."

"Supposing I did... spare his life," Dain lowered his gaze, seeming to study the ax in his hand, "what would be the message to  _ others _ who feel as he does? Would they see me as merciful, or weak?" 

He looked up at her again. "And if I am so easily turned aside from my judgment, questioned before the entire populace by the sister of the one I have been accused of 'usurping'... do you not think I will open the door to future dissension?"

Dís sighed. This was getting sticky. If she could have just been forthright with him about her motives... but no. She couldn't. Not if she wanted anything to come of it. Not if she wanted to see Thorin on the throne again. 

"Wouldn't it be more fitting, more effective, for  _ me _ to punish him? Publicly. Here. Now. I understand you can't be seen as variable or weak. Cousin, I can't let you kill this dwarrow. I'll not let more blood be spilled. Not when the crime is loyalty."

The softer, gentler Dain began to show beneath his hard exterior. She could see the shift at once. As much as it angered him, this... spectacle, he must've understood her reasons, even if only marginally.

"You would... punish him, Princess? How?" It was clear he was halfway moved by her conviction, halfway tempted by her offer. For Dís to mete out the punishment, whatever it might be, would send an unmistakable message to those loyal to Thorin: that she was wholly loyal to the new king. Dain's probable hopes for a "united front" would be realized. 

Dís hesitated, caught between the bear and the bear trap. Either betray Dain's confidence, or her brother's faith. There seemed to be little middle ground. A thought occurred to her, and the dwarrowdam shifted slightly. It would work. And it would serve both ends. Maybe. 

"I believe I have an idea." Drawing herself from her reverie, she fixed her betrothed with an earnest look. "Do you trust me?" This could work, she was certain of it.

Dain had the good grace to hesitate only briefly. "Of... course I do." The hard lines of his face eased slightly, his grip on the ax loosening enough that his knuckles were no longer white. "Princess, do what you must. Just remember - the future of Erebor may well hinge on what you do now. I have been told...." 

He checked himself, turning back toward the door. "But never mind. We must return." 

Dís felt a well of gratitude that was as genuine as it was surprising. She nodded, and as she passed him to lead the way back to the dais, the dwarrowdam dared to give his shoulder a light squeeze. A familiar gesture, not quite affectionate, but not distant, either. 

The hum of the crowd died down until the fall of their boots echoed through the mighty hall. She and Dain strode side by side up to the throne, and again, she noticed the handful of advisors hovering in the seat's impressive shadow. The dwarrow was still kneeling before the throne, his wide grey eyes betraying nothing of fear as he watched her. Dís held his gaze as she approached, and felt Dain drop back.

"Loyalty. Honor. Strength. Wisdom." Dís' voice rang from wall to pillar to ceiling, strong and steady. "These are the qualities on which our culture was founded. These are prized above any victory or loss in warfare. A king cannot rule his kingdom if he cannot trust his subjects."

The hall was deathly silent, every eye riveted on the forge-stained princess. The last of Durin's line. 

"Any dwarf who violates that sacred trust," here, she allowed her gaze to land heavily on the youth, who twitched, "is a traitor. Boy, you've been accused of speaking out against your king, of insulting his honor and mocking his station. You even claim allegiance to another. Is this true?" 

As her words echoed and faded, the dwarrow bowed his head, shoulders hunched in shame. His short beard only just brushed his chest as he spoke. 

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Then let your betrayal be your punishment. Since you claim allegiance to Oakenshield, then you may go serve him in banishment. You are to leave Erebor forthwith, and not return."

The silence in the room took on a certain shocked tension, as though every dwarf present was holding his breath. Banishment was almost as bad as death, as far as many were concerned. Being cut off from friends and family, from one's people, never to return... it was, in some ways, a living death, and perhaps more painful. 

Dís could see, clear as anything, horror eclipsing the young dwarf's shame as the full implications of the sentence registered. Acceptance followed quickly, though, and the youngling nodded soberly.

A glance over her shoulder told Dís that Dain wasn't entirely pleased, but he wasn't going to say anything. In that, this was a success. Her first priority had been saving this foolish young dwarf; damage control was secondary, and would be easy enough, she figured. 

"Take him away," she ordered the guards. "Give him ample supplies for his travels, and... allow him an hour to bid his family farewell." 

It was only a few minutes before she and Dain were alone again, but it seemed much longer. They strode side by side down a back corridor toward the royal apartments. Dís felt... grimy, and in need of a hot bath, followed by a long nap. 

"I... hadn't thought...." Dain trailed off, stroking his grizzled beard with a frown. "Banishment. You surprise me, Princess."

"May I ask what you thought I would do?"

Dain huffed lightly. "I don't know. I thought you might beat him. Cut off his braids, send him to prison." 

"You and I both know that wouldn't have sent a strong enough message."

"I am... glad you did it, Princess." Dain's look was genuine gratitude. "Banishment, on your orders... it is no small thing. No small deterrent." 

"I'm glad I came in time. I was almost too late." 

"As am I, now that it's over and done with. I sent for you, you know."

Dís glanced at him, and there must have been something of surprise in her face, because he explained. 

"I sent a servant to your quarters with a full report of what had happened and a request for you to attend me in the council chamber, but you weren't there. Nor were you in the baths, or any of the other places I could think of." Here he paused to give her blackened hands an admiring glance. Clearly, though the forges hadn't occurred to him, he approved. "Is it your habit, milady, to spend your nights at work?" 

"Only when sleep eludes me." Dís hadn't wanted him to find out about her refuge in the forges, but she saw now it couldn't be helped.

"You're having trouble sleeping?" Concern first, like a true gentleman. If he had any other suspicions, they didn't show in his face.

"Well, to be completely forthright, there is something I feel compelled to finish... before the wedding." True enough, even if its importance was slightly exaggerated. "Merely ornamental, but... I thought it would befit the occasion." 

Silver beads, silver wire, silver shapes gleaming on her table... now she knew what she could do with them. At least it made a decent pretext for visiting the forge over the next few days. She had a feeling she was going to need it more than ever.

Dain looked quite flustered at this, and said nothing more until they had reached Dís' chambers. 

"I... hope you rest today, my lady. There will be much to do on the morrow."

With a bow, he turned away. Dís sighed. Barely dawn, and she was already exhausted. But if she was to take advantage of this new opportunity, then she would need to act quickly. She only had an hour. 

Safely locked in her rooms and ignoring the servant at her door, the dwarrowdam pulled a sheaf of paper, quill and ink pot to her on the desk. Nothing to lose. She had to write. 

_ Kíli,  _

_The lad by which I send this missive has been banished from Erebor for remaining loyal to your uncle. I'm sure you know what that could mean for the rest of us._

_By the time you read this, I will have married Dain, and I'm sure Thorin and the others will have reached Rivendell. Do not think me disloyal. I serve the King Under the Mountain, whether the Mountain's people recognize him or not. See that our kin in Ered Luin hear of your uncle's plight. They will give him succor, and follow him to Erebor if need be. I seek to avoid more bloodshed. We are few, and our numbers are not quick to recover._

_Let it be known that I have never advocated a war of succession. I'll not see my own kin fall when I might prevent it._

_I fear that's all that can be said. Stay strong, Son. I'll see you again soon._

_Your mother,_

_ Dís, Princess of Erebor _

_ PS _

_ I'm sure by now you'll have properly married your elven bride, and I may even be convinced to approve the match if she makes herself a good wife to you. _

Dís folded the letter compactly, addressed and sealed it. A quick scrubbing later, a slightly less sooty princess made her way swiftly toward the end of the hall. Going to see the lad herself was out of the question, but perhaps there would be another way. 

As she had thought, Kuran was leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor. He looked up as she approached, then straightened. 

"Kuran, I need you to see the lad I saved today takes this letter to Rivendell." She offered him the paper, but the dwarf looked at it nervously without taking it. 

"Who is it for?"

"My son, Kíli. Quickly, now, before it's too late. I only gave him an hour to say his goodbyes."

Slowly, Kuran took the missive, but didn't leave. After a moment, he shook his head. "This is a bad idea, Princess."

"Do as I say."

"And if it's discovered on him? You don't think they'll search him first?" 

Dís frowned, crossing her arms with what might have been a hint of stubbornness. "It's a risk I'm willing to take." 

Kuran pursed his lips. "Princess, forgive my bluntness, but with the future of Erebor resting in your ability to live this... double life, taking such risks is reckless. Needlessly so." 

"You would tell me what is needless?" Dís knew she was being unreasonable, but it felt  _ good _ to pit her will against someone who didn't bow to her wishes without question. Kuran nodded. 

"It is needless. I'm sorry, Princess." There was no time for her to stop him. He held the letter to the torch under whose sconce he stood. The paper was consumed in a moment, the molten wax of her seal hissing as it dropped onto the burning brand.

"How  _ dare _ you!" Dís lunged at him, blind with rage, but Kuran backpedaled quickly, as though he'd anticipated she'd react this way. He held up his hands in surrender. He could afford to play the contrite servant, now that he'd gotten his way.

"Punish me however you see fit, Your Highness, but do not think for a  _ moment _ I won't hinder you in any more such acts of recklessness. This is the future of our people, not merely a convenient marriage." Contrite, no. He was anything but.

"Convenient-?!" Dís nearly choked on the word, all but spitting with outrage. She made a second lunge, and this time, Kuran didn't dodge quickly enough - or maybe he didn't dodge at all. In any case, her fist connected solidly with his jaw, and the dwarf staggered, his light armor squeaking faintly in protest. 

Kuran touched his jaw gingerly as he straightened, giving Dís a wary look. Her knuckles felt raw, and she was reminded how long it had been since she'd struck another dwarf. Not since Víli was still alive. 

Stung and thwarted, Dís was very tempted to stomp back to her room in high dudgeon, but it smacked of retreat. 

"Rest well, Princess." Kuran's voice was low, his words just slightly slurred. Maybe he'd bitten his tongue. Dís viciously hoped that was the case. 

"One more word, and you'll be eating my battle ax." The dwarrowdam wasn't even altogether sure her ax had been among the things Nikû had brought with them, since she generally used a small pike, but that threat sounded more impressive than anything else she could think of.

It was wise of Kuran not to tempt her toward further wrath (and possible beheadings). Instead, the dwarf saluted her, bowed with a dignity Dís found deeply infuriating, and turned away. 

The dwarrowdam watched him, stiff as a poker, until he'd rounded the corner at the end of the hall. She had to make a concerted effort to unclench her fists. Never in all her life had she encountered a dwarf who had such little regard for her station, or her orders. 

Well, there was certainly no time to write another letter, and she couldn't be seen handing anything to the dwarrow anyway without raising suspicion. She'd have to find another way, difficult as it seemed.

She growled a curse under her breath and stalked back into her chambers. One thing was certain: she'd never again take Nikû for granted. That was assuming her loyal bodyguard ever returned. The possibility that she might  _ not _ wasn't something she wanted to consider at the moment.

 

* * *

Day slipped into afternoon, afternoon into evening. Dís socialized as required and ate when servants put food in front of her. There was no reason to let her temper ruin an entire day - she would make herself useful and productive. It wasn't until she made her way to the forge that night that she was reminded that she hadn't lain down in a bed in over 24 hours. 

And it was Dain that reminded her.

He was waiting for her in the doorway, his back against one of the huge metal gates, arms folded over his broad, deep chest. When she approached, he straightened, and she noticed that his crown (her brother's crown) had been replaced by a simple iron circlet. It suited him better, really. 

"My lady." He bowed slightly, but his expression was sober. "I know you value your work here, but I must insist that you take your rest first. I've been informed that you've barely stopped to eat today, let alone sleep." 

"You fear for my wellbeing?" Dís arched an eyebrow at him, and the king's beard twitched with a faint smile. 

"Yes and no. I know you to be strong, but frankly, I fear for my own wellbeing, should I allow you to work yourself into illness, or worse. The nobles seem quite determined that you should be taken care of."

Dís scoffed lightly. "I'm sure they are. Don't fret over me, my king. I have never taken ill from lack of rest, and I don't expect I'll start now."

"As you say." Dain nodded slightly. A beat of silence. He was clearly about to get to the point. "What you did this morning. Sparing the dissenter's life. I must know... what would you have done had I  _ refused _ your request? Would you have... respected my judgment?"

There was weight to the question, obviously, and Dís wondered if he'd been put up to this by his advisors. Surely they'd been speculating and debating her motives nonstop since the near-beheading, and Dain couldn't have been completely oblivious to such talk.

Dís watched him for a long moment. There was that choice again. Tell him the full truth, edge around it, or lie. It would be so much easier to just give him all the pieces and let him put it together. It was so tiring to keep it to herself. Running the game. 

But that would mean... losing. 

"I would have respected your decision. I wouldn't have liked it. I wouldn't have been happy with you." Her answer was truthful, if... not the complete truth. His actions, had he not heeded her, would have helped her cause.

Dain nodded, evidently satisfied by her answer. "You know I crave your respect, your  _ approval _ . There's no denying it." He smiled faintly, though Dís sensed an oncoming caveat. "Will you grant me both for long, I wonder, if I continuously allow your will to prevail over mine?"

Dís lowered her chin slightly, disliking the turn the conversation had taken. This wasn't much like the Dain she'd spoken with so candidly the evening before. Clearly, something had changed. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on. 

"As my king and future husband," she said carefully, tone softening a little, "it is  _ your _ will which must take precedence, naturally. However, if I may be so bold in reminding you, it was but a short time ago you asked me to speak out if I saw error in a course of action you were considering. Perhaps I... misunderstood you." 

Dain hesitated a moment, then shook his head slightly. "No. Not at all, Princess. I'm just... exercising caution."

The suspicious expression seemed to have faded from his face, but Dís found herself regarding him warily. Whether this change was temporary or not, her distrust had been roused again, and any desire to tell the full truth disappeared behind the glowering beast. 

"And please, do rest, Princess. There is little enough to be gained that I would prefer you whole and hale than accomplished."

Dís figured she wasn't going to be "accomplished," whatever she did, but caution and acts of deference would serve her better than another night in the forge. 

"You are right, of course. Thank you, my king."

 

* * *

Everything was perfect. Absolutely  _ perfect _ . Dís couldn't recall ever having seen a wedding chamber as resplendently festooned, each ornament and tapestry carefully placed, the colors vibrantly red and gold, the lighting just so. It was easy to see now where Dain's labors had been spent these past few weeks when he parted company with her to make "preparations." Of course, with the best decorators in the kingdom at his beck and call, it was doubtful Dain had had to lift a finger.

These thoughts made it easier, somehow, to handle the jitters as she moved slowly up the center of the room, the long train of her gown gossiping with the velvet carpet as she went. This wedding was just a step in her plans, nothing more. A rung in the ladder of gaining Dain's complete trust. She'd only make trouble - for herself, and all those others who were depending on her - by losing sight of her goal. 

Right now her sight was mostly occluded by wide curtains stretched across the front steps of the dais, hiding everything behind them from view. 

Within a handful of heartbeats, she was standing at the foot of the stairs. There was Dain, clad in elaborately tooled leather armor to match the leather inlays in her dress. If they'd not been nobles, their garb would have been more practical, but this was as much a statement as it was a ceremony. 

The dwarf nodded to her, his beard neatly trimmed and plaited, but with a conspicuous absence of beads. Dís nodded in return, and in silence, they turned together toward their officiate. 

Standing behind a heavy work bench, a sharp-eyed dwarf bearing the Blue Mountain coat of arms on his heavy, soot-stained apron waited for them. At his left, a small forge stood, remarkably clean and very hot. 

"Born in blood, initiated in stone," said the officiate, sharp gaze shifting from Dís to Dain, "soon to be bound by vows, let those who would be united demonstrate their ability to work as one."

The project was, of course, a simple one. The mold had been made beforehand, and all that remained was to skim the impurities from the chosen metal and pour the molten stuff into the mold and cool it. 

She worked silently at Dain's side; holding, tilting, skimming, working the bellows. He poured, she held the mold. He dropped it into the trough, and she fished out the piece. He cut the stem, she polished it - and was surprised to find the delicate engravings there, angular symbols for strength, loyalty and honor wove around and behind the royal Raven of Erebor, and the crest of Durin's house. The circlet was not a light thing, but neither was it ostentatious in its size. 

Dain took it gently from her hands and set it on her head, where it sat neatly in her elaborate crown of braids, so neatly, in fact, that this must have been planned. Dís felt humbled. Her gift for him, in comparison, seemed practically impersonal.

A simple amulet in pure mithril silver, hung on beaded wire and polished 'til it shone. The runes engraved on the amulet were delicate, skillfully worked into the design, and the ruby inlaid into the silver flashed in the lamplight as though she'd sealed within it a flame. An impressive piece, to be sure, one born of her sleepless nights in the forge, but all the same, she couldn't help but feel it was somewhat... inadequate. 

Dain was, as always, understated in his delight, but Dís could tell he was pleased as he fastened it around his neck, and she had to admit it looked quite becoming on him, nestled in the comely strands of his beard where it lay on his chest.

"My queen to be is a true craftsman," he said fondly, and bowed slightly. "As in the forge, so in life."

"So struck in fire, so proven in metal, may they now be bound with vows." The officiate offered Dain an elaborate goblet, filled with wine so deeply red it might have been elvish. Dain took and raised it, reciting the ancient, binding words in a confident voice. 

"So I vow, and so it shall be until the great remaking at the End." He drank, then passed the goblet to Dís. The dwarrowdam took it, feeling the weight of it as her heart turned over in her chest with a sharp flutter. 

Steadily, she too recited her vows, though she thought her voice might have taken on a slight quaver toward the end. She had thought it would feel like a betrayal. Like a crime. Instead, she felt... excited. She wasn't sure whether to be disgusted or relieved about that. 

Dís finished her vow and drank. The wine was smooth and heavy on her tongue, much more potent than she'd thought it would be.

Dain smiled at her, accepting the goblet once more to return it to the officiate. The vows complete, there remained but one thing undone.

"And now, my wife and queen," Dain turned toward the curtain, making a subtle signal, "as is custom in the Iron Hills, I shall reveal a final gift of our royal wedlock."

Dís folded her hands before her, giving a slight bow. "You are too generous, my king." 

Dain huffed a laugh. "Impossible where  _ you _ are concerned." 

The curtain fell away in a rushing cascade of velvet, and the candle-flames guttered in the short-lived gale. 

Dís could scarcely believe her eyes, and a collective gasp from the assembly told her she wasn't the only one. On the small dais, situated before the covered seats of the king and queen, was a harp. Easily as tall as she was, and wrought of burnished gold, shaped and hammered all along the frame in designs of incredible detail. Mountains, dwarves, dragons, runes... it seemed to bear a history of Durin's folk, though it was difficult to tell at a distance.

"I understand in your youth you were a harpist of great skill," Dain said softly. "I thought this might make a fit wedding present, might remind you of... happier days." 

Dís glanced at him, unable to believe it. He must have seen the desire in her eyes, because he indicated for her to go to her gift. With halting steps, Dís approached the harp, circled it, touched the strings gently. 

"Do you like it?" Dain's voice was lowered, but the dwarrowdam thought he must already know the answer. 

"Who told you?" she asked in return, shaking her head in wonder. It was a stunning instrument, expertly crafted. She wondered if it was the work of his own hands. "I haven't touched a harp in... years." Understatement. She hadn't played a harp since the deaths of her father, grandfather, brother and husband. Well... first husband. 

"I... remembered."

Dís turned to look at him, one hand still on the curved arm of the harp. He had remembered, after all these years? He couldn't have heard her play for well over a century. And yet.... 

"Thank you," she whispered, unable to find any other words. He had found a soft spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're two chapters ahead and building out buffer as fast as we can but OMM, you guys are not going to believe the DRAMA. *swoons* A slight change in plans scrapped our original outline for part 2, but it's going to be SO WORTH IT. 
> 
> So.  
> Much.  
> DRAMA.
> 
> You have been warned.


	20. Fíli; New Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli, Ori and Gwínir reach the Misty Mountains, but not without incident. Fíli says more than he should, and Ori feels sorry for her lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a little early this month, since the fifteenth falls on a Sunday and I still don't have internet at my house. As a result, I may come back and edit it later, but for now, enjoy an early chapter. :)

Perhaps it was something in the way they towered, or the bulk of them, but mountains were ever a comforting presence, regardless of the dangers they invariably housed. Goblins, bandits, sheol bats, stone giants, the occasional pack of orcs and/or wargs. Fíli sighed, and breathed in another lungful of crisp mountain air, flowing down through the foothills and over their camp. For once, he was actually awake to see the sunrise. Either he was getting used to their slavedriver of a guide, or their impromptu rest yesterday had done more good than he'd thought it would. 

He turned back to the camp, where Ori was sleepily tending a little fire, which Gwínir had generously allowed them. A warm breakfast was in the making, and their four-footed friend, Clem, was off at a little distance, grazing quietly. The donkey had proved invaluable, dutifully carrying whatever was placed on her back, freeing the dwarves to travel with a little more speed. She wasn't shy about stopping when she'd had enough, and that, too, was a boon. Fíli was practically growing fond of the fat little animal. 

"How's your ankle, love?" Fíli took a seat beside his wife, and Ori favored him with a tired smile. 

"Much better. I think I'll be able to manage today alright." 

Fíli slanted a wary glance at Gwinír, and satisfied that he was occupied sorting the supplies, put an arm around Ori. It wasn't that showing affection in front of the elf was  _ embarrassing _ ... it just wasn't his business.

"Let me know if you need to stop and rest. I wouldn't want you to put more strain on it than you have to." He pulled the dwarrowdam closer into his side, and she relaxed against him with a small sigh.

"She should soak it." Gwinír's voice from across the fire reminded Fíli anew of the annoying acuity of elven hearing. "I'll heat some water." 

"It's fine," insisted Ori halfheartedly, seeming more than aware that neither of them were paying heed to her protests. "I can walk."

"Not for long, not on that." Gwínir's tone was matter-of-fact, and Fíli tried not to resent the fact that the elf was telling them what to do. Tried harder because the elf was, for once, advocating a longer rest than normal. While Gwínir filled their little pot from the stream down the hill, the blond stole a quick kiss. 

"You rest for a while. I'll hunt and we'll have a proper meal before we get going. If this keeps that slavedriver off our backs for a while, then maybe a sprain is Mahal's blessing."

Ori gave him a light smack on the arm, but he thought he could see a smile lurking in her doleful eyes. As he stood, he saw Gwínir returning. The elf was quick, he'd give him that.

Hunting went better than expected. Fíli, half by accident, scared up a flock of fat pheasants and managed to bring one down with a lucky knife throw. Not the cleanest kill, but at least it was quick. It would be a meal for the three of them, and that was good. Feeling mildly successful and slightly less tense, he returned to the camp and found Ori replacing her stocking and boot. 

She, too, looked somewhat eased, and turned a placid smile on him. "That feels  _ much _ bett-. Oh!" She twitched a little with surprise as she noticed the colorful bird her husband was carrying. "Poor thing." 

Fíli glanced at Gwínir, and found the elf was looking back at him. It was easy, for once, to read the elf's thoughts in his face. 

_ Don't feel sorry for it. Eat it. That's what it's for. _

This silent agreement was tantamount to kinship. It was weird. Neither dwarf nor elf said a word, but Gwínir stood and took the pheasant, beginning to deftly pluck the feathers and setting aside the larger, stiffer flight feathers for use as fletchings. Once plucked, he proffered the naked bird, and Fíli took it. 

"It's just so sad," murmured Ori. "I remember thinking that with the... oh, what was it? A turkey, or something? Billa showed Bombur how to pluck it."

And now an element of grief had been added to her tired expression. Fíli turned away. 

"I suppose it is. But I'd rather be sad and full than happy and starving."

Ori was silent after that, and Fíli hoped she wasn't upset with him. He busied himself roasting the pheasant, fashioning a rough spit above the fire from some sturdy green sticks Gwinír had set aside. They worked fairly well as a team, oddly enough, as long as neither actually had to speak to the other. That seemed to be where things fell apart.

"You'll need to stoke up the fire a bit, dwarf. It's not hot enough." 

Gwinír stood nearby, arms crossed, a familiar "I know more than you about everything and your bearded mother" look plastered across his face. At least, that's what Fíli took the look to mean. 

"I have a name," he said after a pause, which was far kinder than many of the other retorts that had come to mind.

He heard the elf take a breath to reply, then hesitate. Almost curious, Fíli tilted his head a little so he could look up at his companion. Gwínir was still standing with his arms crossed, but he was looking down at the dwarf with an odd sort of frown on his face, as though he'd had a retort planned, but Fíli hadn't said anything that would allow him to use it. 

"Yes," the elf said at last. "I suppose you do."

Fíli tried not to let any of the satisfaction he felt show on his face, crouching down to coax some more life into the fire. Refusing to argue with the elf - however difficult - seemed surprisingly more effective (and satisfying) than his previous tactics.

By the time the pheasant was sputtering pleasantly in its own juices, Gwinír was already growing anxious to leave, murmuring under his breath about a "bad feeling." He'd packed up all the supplies that weren't currently in use and had them ready beside the donkey. Fíli figured he was just getting antsy beneath the shadows of the mountains. It was to be expected. Those things dwarves found comforting and homey elves would likely find just the opposite. 

"Relax, prince," Fíli said, waving a hand at him. It wasn't a title he'd used for their guide before, but somehow, it was less painful than "Gwinír" and more kind than "elf." "We'll be ready to leave soon enough. Not much point in cooking a meal if we rush off before we've eaten it."

Gwínir gave him a look and huffed softly. "Can we eat as we move? I really don't think we should stay here. It's not safe anymore."

Fíli would never admit the vague dread that cooled his stomach at the elf's words. Whatever else their guide was, frivolous and superstitious were not among them. 

_ So you're just going to trust an elf? _ demanded a voice that sounded very much like Thorin when he was grumpy.  _ Not grumpy, _ it muttered. 

Though Fíli had a visceral 'no' reaction to the accusation, the calmer, more rational part of his mind assured this Thorin-voice that yes, he trusted Gwínir... to value his own hide. 

"Why? What is it?" Ori, who never seemed to suffer from internal debates of any kind, mustered an answer first. Gwínir scanned the hills. 

"I don't know," he said quietly. "I just have a bad feeling about this place, as if it attracts an ill humor."

"An 'ill humor'?" Ori's brow knit slightly. "What... what does that mean?" She glanced between the two of them, as though one or the other might possibly enlighten her. 

"It means his danger senses are tingling." Fíli made a show of rolling his eyes, though internally he was far less unperturbed than he put on.

"Come on, then." The dwarf moved toward the supplies. "I don't think he'll shut up about it until we do what he wants."

"If I  _ did _ shut up about it, I wouldn't be a very good guide, would I?" the elf said tensely. "I know what I'm doing. Now grab the pheasant if you're going to bring it and douse the fire."

Fíli made a point of grumbling loud enough to be heard as he doused the fire and carefully wrapped the pheasant in large, cool leaves. He helped Ori shoulder her pack (having already made certain that her heaviest items had been transferred to his) and followed Gwínir, who was already moving away up the hill, the little donkey plodding along in his wake. 

"I don't see why it was so important to move when we'd only just finished cooking," Fíli murmured, pulling off a leg and offering it to his wife. 

"I'm sure he has his reasons," Ori responded, giving him a faint smile as she took the meat. He could see she was still favoring her hurt leg, but it did seem much better than it had been yesterday.

"Keep it down," Gwínir hissed urgently, waving a hand at them stiffly. 

Fíli muttered under his breath, but after that, was quiet. He told himself this was the result of wanting to focus on his food, not because the elf had demanded he do it.

They moved along for an hour or so without incident, other than Gwínir occasionally shushing them and looking very tense. Paranoid. Definitely paranoid. 

Finally, Fíli had had enough. "May I ask what it is you're 'sensing'?" He kept his voice low so the elf wouldn't have cause to hush him again, but he could see by the stern displeasure in Gwínir's face that even this was too loud for his comfort.

Fíli felt the completely justified urge to hit the elf, though at least part of that was inspired by the continued tension Gwínir was promoting. 

"We're being followed," the elf whispered, and without another word of explanation, turned to the front and led them around a patch of gravel that would undoubtedly have been very noisy if the dwarves walked over it. 

"Followed? By what?" Fíli was unwilling to just blindly trust their guide. He wanted to know what was going on and how best to defend himself. 

"For the love of-" The elf cut himself off and took a deep breath through his nose. "Are you incapable of staying quiet?"

Ori paused beside her husband as they stopped briefly, favoring her left leg as she gave Gwínir a look, her expression somewhere between reproach and fear.

"You're being-" Fíli's retort died on his tongue, for as he stood staring, a grey streak descended on the elf quick as an arrow off the string.

Gwínir had seen the hawk an instant before it struck, and thus had time to protect his face from the creature's talons, but little else. He tried to hit the attacking bird away with his fists, turning around and around in a desperate attempt to elude the sharp claws driving into his skin.

"Help him!" Ori pleaded, eyes wide with horror. "Quick!" 

Fíli lunged forward, knife in hand before he'd had a chance to think about the fact the bird was well beyond his reach. As his foot descended to end his first stride, his knife hand flicked out and up. If the blade nicked Gwínir's hand on its way into the falcon's breast, it was (this time, at least) completely accidental. 

The bird fell with a weak squawk, and as the two males exchanged a look over the dying thing, their mutual conclusion became a reality. It was obvious the bird had been trained to attack and sent at the elf. As their shared glance reached an end, the muffled clatter of a horse's hooves became audible only seconds before a man in grey-green leapt silently from the saddle, straight onto Fíli's back.

The cold edge of a blade nicked his throat, but a quick, instinctual twist, bolstered by desperate strength, threw the man's aim off, preventing the knife from biting more deeply. The dwarf could tell, even as his vision began to swim slightly, that Gwínir had the man's knife-arm and was working to disarm him. 

"There's more coming!" Ori's panicked voice rose at the edges of Fíli's consciousness, and as he sank to his knees, he heard a thud behind him that meant either Gwínir or the attempted assassin had fallen. 

Ori. They would kill Ori. 

Hot blood was coursing down his neck, but he clamped a hand over the wound and powered to his feet again, stumbling toward his wife. 

His wife, who was... gone. Ori was gone. Fíli felt a surge of unadulterated panic, and nearly lost his grip on reality for a second. The blond spun in a quick circle, scanning for Ori. There was a scrap of wool yarn sticking to a thorny branch, and he lurched toward it. Another horse came thundering up the hill, and this one's hooves weren't muffled. A weighted baton swept down toward his head and Fíli threw up his arms. As his bracers caught the blow, his forearms collided with the side of his face and the dwarf was knocked off his feet. Gravel cut into his knees, and it only took a moment for an arrow with green and white fletching sprouted from the man's chest. 

Suddenly, there were firm hands under his arms and Fíli was hauled to his feet again. 

"She's safe. Jus' deal with these idiots." His knife was pushed back into his hand, and Fíli looked around to see an unkempt dwarf with a thick red beard and wild braids.

Where she'd come from, Fíli hadn't the faintest, and he wasn't about to ask. It was strange, all the same.

Four men, so far - though Fíli couldn't be sure there weren't more who simply hadn't shown themselves. They'd been skilled enough at keeping out of sight before. Gwínir downed another with a well-aimed arrow, but over the hill, straight on the heels of the dead man's horse, came two more men, riding in swift, unyielding unison. Straight over the top of the unprepared elf they came, and Gwínir vanished from view beneath the tall grass.

One plunged from the saddle shortly thereafter, Fíli's knife in his neck, but the other wheeled around deftly, spear poised to finish off the trampled elf.

_Wohp wohp wohp_.

The heavy sound of a blade whirling through the air reached Fíli's ears a moment before a battle-ax severed the rider's sword arm. It was enough of a distraction that Gwínir, wherever he lay, was spared a kill-thrust as the assassin screamed, urging his horse onward, down the hill. 

"Damn. I was aiming for his spine." The red-haired dwarrowdam had a second, smaller ax in her hands now, and glanced at Fíli with an apologetic twitch of her eyebrows. "Sorry 'bout that."

If there were any more, they were keeping well out of sight. The last of their attackers was spurring his horse after his injured comrade. Chances were that the one missing an arm would die by nightfall. 

"Gwínir? Ori?" Fíli wasn't sure who to go to first. His new companion waved a hand at him. 

"I'll help your mate out of the thicket. You help your elf." The lack of venom in her voice as she spoke the word "elf" struck Fíli as odd, but he decided there was a greater chance that their guide was injured. Even though he didn't trust this stranger with his wife, Gwínir could be seriously hurt, and he was one of the Company, now. 

Ears ringing, legs still wobbling, Fíli moved toward the tall grass.

Fear and concern knotted his insides as he approached the patch of crushed and bent grass, and he couldn't bring himself to be ashamed of this. He could see the elf now, lying still, blood streaking an arm, blood smeared across his forehead.

"Prince?" The dwarf knelt beside him, inspecting his injuries gravely. His arm was twisted strangely, and there were distinct, hoof-shaped bruises beginning to form on his exposed skin in several places. He was clearly still alive, though his chest rose faintly and his eyes were closed. "Can you hear me?" 

"Unfortunately." At least the elf hadn't lost his wit, though the word was constricted with pain. "I suppose... you believe me now?" 

Fíli sighed, mingled relief and exasperation beating through him as he knelt beside his guide. 

"Yes, I believe you. Now shut up and hold still. You're not the only one that knows a bit about healing."

Gwínir didn't move, but he kept talking, regardless. "Oh, good. A mercy killing." 

If he'd been in better shape, Fíli might have hit him. Honestly, though, at this point, he didn't really feel the urge as strongly as he thought he would. Quietly, the dwarf dug the healer's pouch out of his bag and began tending the elf's many wounds. Most of the salves they had with them were packed away on Clem's back, and goodness only knew where the little donkey was now. He would make do with what he was carrying. 

"Athelas," groaned Gwínir, and Fíli frowned. 

"What?"

"Athelas. Kingsfoil."

"I have no idea what you're babbling about."

"It's an herb."

"Okay. So?"

"I think Lord Elrond used it in a lot of his healing compounds." Ori's hesitant voice pulled Fíli from his task, and he looked up with a relieved smile. 

"Trust you to be paying attention to a thing like that."

Ori shrugged. "I thought it might come in handy. But since we don't have any, I don't think-"

"Saw some... a few minutes ago." Gwínir seemed to be engaged in some amount of concentration. Fíli had a strong suspicion he was fighting back the urge to be sick. 

"What's it look like?"

"Like a weed." The ginger dwarrowdam's voice rose some distance away as she moved toward them purposefully, clutching a handful of various plants, some with flowers, some all leaves or stalk. "Probably one of these. Have a look, elf." 

Gwínir opened his eyes, but almost immediately rolled onto his side and threw up. Fíli swore he heard bone grinding against bone as the elf moved. 

"Small, dark, pointed leaves." His coppery hair was badly soiled, but Gwínir tried to push it out of his face all the same. "Smells like mint."

The dwarrowdam sorted through the weeds she'd pulled up, and came up with two that more or less matched that description. Choosing one, she pushed it under the elf's nose and crushed leaves between her fingers. Gwínir started to relax as he breathed in the scent. 

"Athelas."

Fíli took the plant and began to chew it to a paste. 

"I'll get more," grunted the ginger, and moved away with heavy, purposeful strides. 

"Here. I'll help." Ori knelt beside her husband and Fíli relaxed slightly. 

"Thank you."

The blond spat the paste into his hand, hoping water would wash the pungent taste from his mouth. It wasn't unpleasant, just... strong. 

"Tell me what to do." 

Gwínir shuddered slightly as he forced himself onto his back again, grimacing painfully. "Just... apply it to the wound.  _ Gently! _ " The elf sucked in a hissing breath. "My arm's broken. You'll have to set it." 

Fíli wished Oin were here. He'd never had to do any of this sort of work before, and definitely didn't flatter himself by thinking he had "the touch." 

"What- how do I do that?" 

Gwínir chuckled bitterly. "I'm done for." 

"Stop being so melodramatic." 

The elf pried his eyes open a slit. "You  _ honestly _ don't know how to set a fracture?"

Fíli cursed under his breath, fighting to keep an even temper. Gwínir's scorn wasn't helping matters. "Just... tell me how to do it." 

With a long-suffering sigh, the elf did so, speaking through clenched teeth to guide his ignorant companion through what he clearly felt was a simple process. With Ori at his side, offering soft encouragements and steadying his hands when he needed it, Fíli followed Gwínir's instructions, and wasn't sure whether to feel sick or relieved when he felt the bone click back into its proper place. He splinted and bound the broken arm, then did a great deal of probing around a nasty swelling below Gwínir's right knee, testing to see if it was broken as well. 

"Could you _stop_ that? It's not broken!" The elf's voice cracked, and Fíli pulled his hands away. 

"Sorry. Looked like it could be."

"Got some more of your weed." The newcomer was tromping back up the hill now, carrying a generous handful of the pungent, dark-leafed plant. 

"Thank you." Fíli took the greenery, thinking to himself that they would need to move, but he wasn't sure if Gwínir could. "I don't think I know your name." And now that things weren't happening quite so fast, he noted that the ginger dwarf was wearing braids to mark her as a daughter, a sister, and a wandering smith, but she had no beads to indicate her family, home or financial status. She wore no beads at all, in fact, and Fíli wasn't sure he trusted that. 

"I'm Ginii."

And she didn't name her father when she introduced herself, either. The blond felt a surge of creeping distrust. Nevermind that she'd saved his life. It could have been a setup. Maybe she was planning to use the lifedebt against him.

Either that, or she had a great explanation. Some casual questioning wouldn't be amiss, he decided. 

"Where are you headed, Ginii? Seems good luck you came when you did." He made a show of chewing the new athelas she'd brought, hoping it wasn't obvious he was probing her for information. 

"Erebor. I heard the Mountain had been reclaimed. Seemed like a good time to... what?" 

Fíli concluded that the souring frustration had shown on his face, and he spat out the green paste he'd made, rubbing it into Gwínir's broken, abused skin. 

"I don't deal with traitors and their allies."

"Fíli!" Ori sounded positively appalled, but Ginii seemed bemused at worst. 

"Nor do I, but I'm not sure what that has to do with my destination." 

Fíli stood. "That's good. Very clever. No family, no beads, heading to Erebor, and you just  _ happen _ to show up in time to save our lives."

The ginger dwarrowdam frowned slightly, but didn't seem provoked beyond mild concern. "You have something against Erebor?" 

The blond stood, ignoring Ori's hissed protests. "I am Fíli, son of Dís. Thorin Oakenshield was King Under the Mountain until his throne was  _ usurped _ and stolen from him by Dain Ironfoot. I followed him from Erebor until he disappeared some weeks ago."

Ginii gazed at him for a long moment, and Fíli was a little disconcerted by the wonder in her eyes. She was three inches or so shorter than him, as most dwarves tended to be, but cut a fairly impressive figure in worn, sweat-hardened leather armor. 

"Ginii, daughter of Gomin, at your service."

After a moment, Fíli nodded, reasonably satisfied. He felt somewhat foolish, now, for revealing such potentially deadly information to someone he knew so little about, and it might end badly if his initial suspicions proved correct. Still, he owed her his life, and that meant, where things stood, the least he could provide in return was a modicum of trust. 

"Good. Then your first service to me will be your story, Ginii, daughter of Gomin. Don't take it personally. Anyone met under such circumstances is suspect."

"Fíli." Ori sent him a slightly incredulous look, as though she couldn't believe he'd say such a thing. The dwarrowdam  _ was _ always a bit too eager to trust.

"It's our safety, Ori," he said softly, not taking his eyes off the ginger dwarf. "I won't compromise our well-being for politeness' sake." 

Ori didn't respond, but looked deeply disappointed. And even if he knew he was in the right this time, Fíli couldn't quite suppress the sharp twinge of guilt inspired by his wife's expression. Ginii didn't seem to mind, though. She seemed more interested in news from the Mountain. 

"My story's a long one. Better for the road than for camp. Could you... I mean... What happened to Oakenshield?"

Fíli hadn't wanted to talk about this right now. He sighed, kneeling beside the elf again. Gwínir's eyes were closed once more, but it was clear he was paying attention. The dwarf frowned at the roughly-made splint, the splotches of nasty green coating the elf's many wounds.

"That, too, is a long story and better left for the road. Suffice it to say, Thorin Oakenshield is gone, and probably dead. We've little cause to hope otherwise." The words issued quick, practically monotone. Detachment was the only way to handle such things for the moment. Open grief would have to wait.

He could hear the crunch of a loose rock or two under the dwarrowdam's boots as she shifted her weight a little. The blond glanced at Ori, and found that she had her head bowed, and was carefully wrapping the last of their clean bandages around Gwínir's shoulder, which looked like it might be dislocated. That was something Fíli knew he could fix. 

Standing, he moved to the elf's other side, took his shoulder in both hands, and pushed the joint firmly back into its socket. Gwínir grunted in obvious pain. 

"That  _ hurt _ _,_ " he hissed. 

"Good. Tell me if it keeps hurting." 

"He's... gone?" Ginii's voice was very soft, and a swift look in her direction confirmed that she was still processing the implications of the great dwarf's death. 

Fíli didn't answer her aloud, but nodded firmly, and stood again. "Ori, we'll be making camp until Gwínir can travel again. Can you stay here with him while Ginii and I scout ahead for a better campsite?"

Ori nodded assent, and Fíli moved off through the tall grass, not looking to see if Ginii followed. 

"So you're traveling alone?" the blond inquired after a minute or two of silence. He'd meant to keep to himself, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Do you have a death wish, or are you just that bold?" 

"I don't have anyone to travel with." Ginii sounded almost nonchalant, but Fíli thought he could hear a shrug in her voice. "My family are all dead and gone, and I've lived among humans most of my life." They reached the crest of the hill and started down the other side. The blond put a hand on the knife at his hip. He had no intention of being caught off-guard a second time, and it made him nervous that his new companion stayed a pace or two behind him.

"Relax, friend." There was some amount of amusement in the dwarrowdam's voice. "If I'd wanted to kill you, I've had better opportunities before now." 

Fíli scoffed, but nonetheless felt silly. "You'll forgive me for being cautious. I've been stabbed in the back by close kin before; trusting a stranger so easily seems even less wise, don't you think?" 

"Understandable. I'd like to prove myself to you, if I could. I'm not sure that's possible right now, though."

Fíli wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he remained silent as they reached the valley between the hill they'd left the others on and the next. 

"You're not going to Erebor." That was a statement, and Ginii didn't seem to expect a response. "Would it be untrustworthy to request permission to travel with you? At least until your elf is back on his feet again?"

"Trouble seems to have a knack for dogging my kin, as you've probably noticed." Fíli winced slightly as his neck began to throb again. He was thankful, at least, that Ori hadn't flown into hysterics over it. It was little more than a nick, but it stung, and had bled pretty fiercely at first. "You can come along if you like, but you'd probably be safer continuing to Erebor on your own." 

It was an odd thing, the voices warring inside his head, a mishmash of caution and sense and reason, all the things Thorin would've said, all the things his mother would've said. But he needed Ginii's help, that much he knew. It was a risk he'd have to take.

Ginii snorted, and Fíli had to glance at her to see whether she was laughing or not. The amusement in her eyes was grim, but it was there. For being such a dark shade of brown, her eyes were remarkably clear. Like he was seeing straight to the bottom of a muddy pool. 

"Safety has never been at the top of my list," she told him bluntly. "Safety doesn't matter to me. What matters is finding a leader to follow - one who's worthy of my loyalty." 

The blond felt a new respect for the dwarrowdam blossoming in his chest. She spoke so honestly he couldn't bring himself to doubt her words. And what agent of Dain, or of anyone else for that matter, would so openly seek someone to whom to pledge themselves? Then again, maybe that was what she wanted him to think. Fíli sighed. This internal conflict was exhausting. He needed to make his choice and not look back. Either he would trust her, for better or worse, or he wouldn't, and would be on his guard until they reached Rivendell. One of those options promised to be easier than the other.

"And... you think I'm worthy of that loyalty?" The words weren't mocking or incredulous. Fíli wasn't really sure what the ginger's token of trust inspired in him, but it was somewhat... frightening. Assuming his uncle's position, becoming a symbol of hope, a leader - that was something he  _ definitely _ didn't want to think about right now. He shrugged, making a show of flippancy. "Have it your way, then. Doesn't mean I trust you, but... I'm willing to give you a chance." 

_ Pray Mahal it won't be the death of us all. _

"Good. You give me a chance, and so shall I give you, and if one of us disappoints the other, we can part ways later." Ginii seemed pleased with the arrangement, and when Fíli threw her a quick look over his shoulder, she shrugged, stepping around him. and putting out her arm to stop him walking into a ditch. 

"I don't know what sort of a leader you are. I knew Oakenshield was worthy of my loyalty, but if he's dead, then I'll have to see if you're the sort I would expect to take his place." The ginger allowed him to resume the lead, going along the ditch and into the trees. "From what I saw earlier, you are. I'm not worried you'll let me down. You don't seem the type." She spoke almost cheerfully as they worked their way through thick underbrush and paused in a little clearing. "This looks like a good place, don't you think?"

Fíli nodded, glad she'd changed the subject. "Looks fine." They dropped what few supplies they'd carried into a pile in the midst of the clearing and headed back for the others. Gwínir, thankfully, could walk with only minimal support, though he cursed under his breath at intervals and looked, quite frankly, like death would be preferable to the indignity he was suffering.

"Just a bit further," Fíli found himself consoling the elf, which surprised even him. He quickly pretended he'd been speaking to Ori, who nodded appreciatively. 

Once Gwínir had been settled once more and taken a little water, the others went about setting up a minimal camp. Most of their gear had vanished with Clem, but Ginii had a pan and tinderbox, so it wasn't a complete catastrophe. At least half of their food supplies were still intact in the pack Fíli had been carrying, and he began sorting through it to determine what supplies it contained and what had gone off into the blue with their beast of burden.

"You... passed through the Woodland Realm?" Ginii seemed to have noticed the very particular crest stamped into the leather of his pack.

Fíli shrugged, nodding significantly at Gwínir's miserable form. "Not by choice." 

"I skirted it once, several years back, when I was delivering something to Laketown." Ginii looked at the elf as though she were trying to remember something. "I don't think I ever saw more than one or two elves, but I saw plenty of that." She nodded to the crest on his pack. "I'd wake up with it scratched in the dirt, or burned into my breakfast. Thought maybe I was going mad."

Fíli chuckled in spite of himself. "I'm sure they thought it was a terrific little prank." 

Gwínir shifted slightly. "Before you ask, it wasn't me." 

"Save your strength, Prince. We're resting for  _ you _ , remember?" Fíli pulled out what seemed to be a small, wrapped parcel. "You're in luck. We still have the broth cubes." 

"I'll make some, Fee." Ori took the little package. "I've already got the pot ready." 

"You're going to risk a fire?" Gwínir sounded a bit startled. "How do you know there aren't more men lurking about?" 

"We don't," responded Ori with a shrug, "but hiding from them won't make them go away. Better to let them know we're not afraid than to cower and hope they go away."

Fíli considered siding with Gwínir on this particular point, but honestly, he was deeply impressed by Ori's approach to the problem. Ginii, too, gave the smaller dwarrowdam an admiring look.

Gwínir heaved a capitulating sigh, but said no more.

Soon, a merry little blaze was going, the water boiling, and the broth steaming. The smell was savory, hinting faintly at rosemary, and began to smell ever more heavenly as Ori added vegetables and what remained of the pheasant. 

"Your wife's a good cook," Ginii commented. 

"Trained by the best." Ori hid a pleased blush. "Good ol' Bombur." Her pleasure evaporated into concern. "I hope he's alright." 

"I'm sure he's fine." Fíli filled a bowl with stew and nudged Gwínir lightly. 

The elf made a faint grunting sound, but didn't stir. The herbs must have done their work. 

"I think he's asleep." 

"Good. He needs it." Ori handed Fíli one of the wooden spoons they'd carried in their packs. "Let me know if it needs any more salt." 

Fíli settled to eating his meal (which didn't, in fact, need more salt). It was easily the most delicious thing he'd tasted since... well, since leaving the Mountain, he'd guess. That was a depressing thought. He pushed it aside in favor of focusing on the food in his mouth and getting more to that location. 

It was Ginii who heard the intruder first. She hissed a warning to the others, drawing her ax. Fíli hastily swallowed the last of his food and dropped his bowl, pulling his knives free of their sheaths. They waited in silence as the figure rustled through the undergrowth. 

Ginii took the left flank, and Fíli moved to the right while Ori stood over the injured elf, who was attempting to get to his feet again. They were ready this time. Fíli had a knife poised to throw when a long, furry face pushed through the thick underbrush, long ears flopping comically forward as they sprang free of the low branches. 

"Clem!" Fíli lowered his weapons with a relieved huff.

"That's strangely... fortunate." The elf apparently had a talent for understatement. Ori was trying to help him lie down again, but Gwínir wasn't having it. 

"I suppose a skin-changer's donkey would have more sense than an ordinary one." Fíli sheathed his knives, clicking his tongue at the elf. "Now, now. You've a broken arm and goodness knows what else, and we're staying here on your account. Lie down and stay still or I'll make you." 

Gwínir opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it. Shaking his head in distinct annoyance, he allowed Ori to help him recline, cursing under his breath at the pain. Fíli was pretty sure that was the only sort of elvish he'd learned from Gwínir. 

The blond saw that Ginii had already caught hold of the donkey's lead and was busily tying her to a sturdy tree nearby. "Looks like most o' your supplies are still here, thank Mahal. We'd have been in trouble without 'em." 

"First good luck we've had in a while. Well," Fíli amended, " other than not getting eaten by bears and spiders." 

"Do I want to know?" 

The blond chuckled. "Probably not." 

That day was the first in what felt like weeks where they could relax. Well, partially, at least. Fíli took turns with Ginii at keeping watch while Ori tended Gwínir. The elf slept for the better part of the day - though Fíli was sure this was the first time he'd ever seen the elf actually sleeping. 

"Never thought elves could snore," Fíli commented quietly to his wife, which earned him an elbow in the ribs and a crooked smile. 

"Don't say anything about it. Might hurt his feelings." Ori wasn't altogether convincing when she was hiding a smile behind her hand, but Fíli didn't doubt her sincerity.

"Not a word," Fíli deadpanned. "Might so easily get back to Thranduil." 

"Oh, you." Ori grinned at him, then nestled into his side. He stroked her hair silently and together they savored the moment of peace.

"I'll be happy to see your brother," she said finally, sighing faintly. "And Tauriel. I feel like things will be alright again - sort of." 

Fíli nodded, humming softly in agreement as he glanced at Ginii. The dwarrowdam seemed to be ignoring them, her gaze turned out toward the trees around them, her hand on the head of her ax. 

"It'll be good to see Kee again. The world doesn't seem so upside-down when he's here."

With a sigh, Ori closed her eyes, and Fíli felt himself smiling in spite of their situation. In spite of the ache in his neck and the fact that assassins were apparently able to find them in the middle of nowhere, things felt steady and safe, with his wife tucked under his arm. She wasn't hurt, and they had food. They would be alright. 

"I love you," she whispered, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. 

Fíli's smile deepened slightly. "I love you, too. More than anything." Silence fell after that, and the blond was more than a little satisfied with the fact that there was no snide remark coming from the elf. 


	21. Billa; Burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billa, Thorin and Company travel through Rohan, and encounter someone unexpected as they approach the border.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, let me apologize - I was sick on the 15th, and completely forgot about posting, and it didn't occur to me until this morning that this month's chapter was late. Laaaaate! D:
> 
> Second, allow me to warn you (pleasantly, I hope) that this chapter is almost 10,000 words long (9691, to be precise) and you oughtn't start reading it unless you have plenty of time to do so. I know that getting interrupted in the middle of a chapter can be very frustrating, particularly when there are no dividers in there to help you find the place where you left off. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy Chapter 21!

The sun seemed dead set on scorching them right off the face of Middle-earth. The land about them was pretty enough, yellow-green grasses as high as the top of her own curly head, rolling hills and occasional rocky outcroppings. But Billa could feel summer in the air, and knew without a doubt that the heat would get much worse before it got better. 

They trudged onward in a straggly line, while Billa bounced along on Nikû's hip, too tired to keep up with the rest of the Company. If it weren't for the swarthy boy, whatever his name was, then she would have been comfortably on Thorin's back at this point. But no. 

"Rohan," she muttered, very much out of sorts what with the heat and hunger and discomfort. "What's so great about it, anyway?"

The halfling could see Nikû's lips purse, thinning to a pale, unhappy line on her tanned face, but the dwarrowdam didn't answer. Their stay in Gondor had been short lived and unpleasant. Apparently, dwarves were a rather unpopular lot there. And of course, as trading became more and more difficult, Thorin pressed the Company to go faster, angling for the Gap of Rohan, which was an easier journey overall than crossing the mountains, though apparently a stretch longer. Oh, if only she still had her maps!

Billa sighed, turning her eyes toward the front of the column of dwarves. Thorin was several lengths ahead, striding doggedly through the grass, which reached his chest easily, and his shoulders in some places. How long had it been? Two months? Three? Maybe more. It seemed that recently, the steady growth of her waistline was the most accurate calendar at her disposal. The swell of her belly wasn't significant yet, by hobbit standards, but she could tell that Thorin was very aware of it. He watched her from a distance. Always from a distance. 

The few times they had spoken had been brief, cut short by the faintest glance from one of the strangers, the barest hint of suspicion. She'd been wearing the accursed foot coverings so long she felt half mad with desire to rip them off. It felt no more natural than having a bag over one's head; never something to which she could grow accustomed. And it was that stupid boy's fault, she reminded herself. It was all for his sake they were still keeping up the charade. Not for the first time in her life did she find herself wishing she were a dwarf. 

As if aware she was staring at him, Thorin glanced at her over his shoulder, the mild amusement he'd once derived from her plight long departed. This was absurd. One more day like this, and she'd go out of her mind.

"Nikû, I can't. Please. Let me walk." The halfling's hushed voice took on a pleading quality. "Please. You're tired. _I'm_ tired. We can't go on like this." 

Nikû gave the hobbit a sidelong look and hesitated for a long, tired beat. Billa could see the truth in her own words, the haggard look Nikû had taken on in the past weeks. After the silence had passed between them like judgment, the dwarrowdam sighed, and set the little halfling down. She all but disappeared in the tall grass. 

"Hold my hand," she instructed. "It won't do for you to get lost." 

Billa's feet were on solid ground once more, and she paused a moment to liberate them from the horrid covers, reluctantly stuffing the rough cloth into her coat pockets. "I can still pretend to be a dwarrow," she whispered. "But I'm a _walking_ one now, thank you very much." 

"Thorin may not approve."

"Well, then. He can lecture me later. Not my fault he brought that boy along, is it?" Billa shot her companion a defiant look, and immediately felt guilty. Nikû didn't deserve the brunt of her frustration. "Anyway, what could he possibly know of dwarves and their younglings? It's a thousand to one he's never seen a hobbit before." 

Nikû seemed unconvinced, but said no more as they walked together. Billa stretched her legs, too happy to be on her own feet again to acknowledge the ache in her knees and ankles. She knew it was partially lack of exercise, and partially the increase in her weight. 

The halfling staggered as someone bumped into her from behind, and she turned with a scalding reprimand ready on her tongue, only to gag on the words when she realized it was Dwalin. The hulking dwarf squinted down at her with his usual suspicious glare, and Billa shivered. Recently, she'd begun to fear the one-legged warrior, and she wasn't sure why. 

"Are ye mad, lass?" Dwalin's hiss was barely discernible above the wind's susurrus, but somehow potent as ever. "Ye'd risk the lad knowin' yer not one of us? After weeks of keepin' up the ruse?" 

It was just his manner. He wasn't going out of his way to be gruff. He'd always been this way. Billa reminded herself firmly of this, but still moved a step away from him. "Don't pretend you wouldn't be," she whispered back. "And please try not to trample me in future." 

Dwalin snorted quietly, and the hobbit realized he probably hadn't seen her in the tall grass. Immediately, she felt silly for the whole thing. It was unbearably frustrating, all this inability to DO anything. Well, at least the dwarf clearly knew the counterproductivity of making a scene, and moved off quickly, Billa knew not where. It was somewhat limiting, being unable to see over the grass. 

"Come on, Billa. We're falling behind." 

"Not that easy."

"Shall I carry you again?" 

"No." Billa's firm answer seemed to quite settle the matter, and the two made their way best they could, the hobbit working to limit the number of sharp grass-blades her face became acquainted with. 

In an hour's time, the grass had cleared somewhat, as the terrain became altogether rockier and less flat. Large boulders dotted the uneven plain before them, or formed mounds like small, lumpy hills. The chief improvement seemed to be that at least now, Billa could see where she was going. The group had gotten a few stone-throws ahead of them, but the hobbit figured that was probably best. Less likelihood of attracting any unwanted attention. 

"Hang on..." Billa stiffened slightly, turning to Nikû, cold fear trickling along her nerves. "What's that? You hear it?" It may well be that because they'd fallen so far behind, they didn't have as much of the others' noise to contend with. Or maybe hobbits' ears were keener than dwarves'. Whatever the case, Billa was certain now. Hoofbeats. 

Nikû was still looking at her, though now they had both stopped, straining to hear what Billa's twitching ears couldn't ignore. 

"Thunder," said Nikû, and looked upward at the high, grey clouds that scudded across the sky above them, driven along by winds they neither heard nor felt. 

Billa shook her head. "Horses," she countered, now tugging the dwarrowdam. "And lots of them." 

By then, she could feel the vibrations of the approaching herd through her tough feet. The halfling didn't pause to feel them properly, but knew if she had, she would probably have a better idea of how many there were. 

"How many?" Nikû spoke tersely as she picked the hobbit up, hurrying forward. Billa decided not to complain. 

"I don't know. More of them than there are of us." 

"Horses! Horses on the approach!" Nikû's voice carried well across the plain, and the rest of the group turned, startled, reaching for what weapons they had. 

"Hold!" Thorin raised a hand quickly. "We must not be seen as a threat. Circle up. Hurry." 

It took little more than a handful of moments for the group to carry out his orders, forming a ring around Nikû and her 'dwarrow' and looking uncertainly off into the distance. 

"Maybe... they'll pass us by?" Bofur's hopeful question was quickly shot down by a firm head shake from Thorin. 

"Not likely. Keep quiet. Balin and I will do the talking." 

For several tense moments, nothing seemed to change. The rolling thunder of horses' hooves rumbled toward them, getting very gradually louder. Then the first of them crested a rise to the south. First one, then three, then ten, then two dozen swept over the hill, and more behind them. The foremost rider, wearing heavy leather armor, raised a spear, and the whole herd of them swung in a wide arc toward the band of dwarves. 

Billa watched with wide eyes as the horses surrounded them, snorting and plunging, their grim, armored riders watching with dark, unpleasant frowns. The horsemen swept around and around them, cantering in tighter and tighter circles until Thorin and his Company couldn't have run, even if they had dared. 

Nikû was tense, holding Billa tight to her hip. On her other side, Dori had his back to her and behind them, the swarthy boy whose name Billa didn't remember held a makeshift spear, ready to fight. 

"What business have Dwarves in the Riddermark?" asked the lead rider, whose helm was decorated with what looked like a horse's tail. Pretty gruesome, Billa thought. 

Thorin directed a significant glance at Balin, who swallowed and took a slight step forward, craning his neck to maintain eye contact with the leader. "We're just passing through on our way to the Blue Mountains. We meant no intrusion, your lordship." The white-haired dwarf smiled, employing his most conciliatory tones, his most charming manner, something Thorin had clearly counted on. 

"You lead this band?" The helmed horseman indicated the group with the point of his spear, looking slightly skeptical for reasons Billa couldn't speculate upon. 

Balin shook his head slowly. "Well, no, your lordship. Not exactly. That is to say-" 

"What is your purpose? Why do you travel away from your own lands when all others of your kind go to Erebor?" 

An uncomfortable silence fell over the Company, and Balin glanced at Thorin. Billa saw him nod slightly. They seemed to have grown closer over the past few weeks, now able to communicate volumes without saying a word. The halfling tried to ignore the little twinge of jealousy that pinched at her insides. 

"Our company found we were somewhat... at odds with the new king." Balin spoke delicately, as though this were a topic they preferred not to discuss. Which it was. "We left Erebor some weeks hence, and decided to make our way to the Blue Mountains." 

There was a curious, half-suspicious look on the rider's face. This became more apparent when he took his helmet off and tossed fair hair from his eyes with a jerk of his head, like an impatient horse.

"And why does your leader not speak for himself?" he demanded. "The Riddermark is not friendly to those who keep secrets." 

"These are dangerous times, your lordship," Balin said cautiously. "If we seem to keep our own counsel, it's only because we've faced great peril in our travels." 

The horseman nodded. "I do not doubt your word. You have an honorable look about you, despite your ragged appearance. I do not wish to hinder you, but you would do well to remember these lands are not free to be roamed at will by outsiders."

"Our destination is beyond your lands, far west and north of here," explained Balin, spreading his hands as though to assure the horsemen there was nothing for them to hide.

There were some low mutters among the riders, and finally, their fair-haired leader pointed with his spear, indicating Nikû and Billa and the swarthy boy at the center of their group.

"Your party is unlike others we've seen. Seldom with women or young ones, and never with humans." It was a statement, but there was a question buried in it, like a snare on a game trail.

"Let that attest to our benign intentions," Balin said smoothly, giving the man a winsome smile. "As I said, we wish to reach our lands in peace, and can assure you we mean no mischief." The rider seemed to consider this briefly, lips pursed. 

"I will give you a chance to prove it," he said finally. "You shall have an escort from our lands." Balin nodded, posture relaxing noticeably, while Billa thought Thorin looked troubled (it was difficult to tell, though, seeing only half his face, and from the side). 

"It is not necessary, your lordship." Thorin was clearly working to moderate his tone, but an edge of contempt surfaced nonetheless. 

" _ I _ will decide if it's necessary." The horseman's words followed quickly upon Thorin's, crushing all hope that the escort might be a mere offer. "Irksome as it is to you, it is my duty to see my people are... unharassed by those who have little business here."

Thorin looked like he was about to say something. Billa silently pleaded with him not to give himself away. If he started acting all regal, there was no way every rider in the circle would miss it. Apparently, the dwarf thought better of it, and grumbled wordlessly, looking away. Billa let out a quiet sigh of relief, and buried her face in Nikû's skirts.

The human leader called out several names, and as half a dozen riders urged their mounts into the middle of the circle, the dwarves crowded a little closer together.

"Domand will be the leader of your escort," said the lead horseman, and nodded to a dark-haired man on a twitchy bay stallion, who bowed from the saddle without saying a word. The leader continued, donning his helm. "Should you stray from the course you've laid out, one of Domand's men will find me, and we will come to... correct the offense." The threat was mild, but undeniably present.

"Of course, as you wish," Balin said quickly, nodding agreeably. "Thank you." Billa was relieved when the leader nodded in return, adjusting his helm once more. The horsehair plume trailed out in the wind as he remounted, and employing some unnoticed signal, wheeled his horse around. 

"We ride. Bema speed you from our lands, and in your travels after." And just as suddenly as they had appeared, the horses moved out, disappearing in a matter of seconds over a rise, though the rumor of their hoofbeats lasted considerably longer. 

The remaining horsemen wasted no time. "Come on, then. We've a ways to go yet." That was the one who had been put in charge- Billa couldn't remember his name. He was young, she noticed, his voice clear and vigorous, his manner hurried. Beneath a simple helm of leather and bronze, his eyes watched them, eager and vividly green. 

"We've women and children amongst us," Thorin said icily. "If you expect haste from us, you'd best expect elsewise."

If she had been closer, and been at liberty to say so, Billa would have warned Thorin not to push his luck. He was being dangerously impolite, by her reckoning. The human, to Billa's surprise, seemed to relax very slightly.

"At the quickest pace they can manage, then," he said gruffly, and nodded to one of his men. A horse was spurred forward, and a hard-faced warrior took the lead, his mount regarding the dwarves with a healthy dose of suspicion.

"Come along, little one," said Nikû, just loud enough to be heard by those listening closely.

Billa followed, trying to toddle convincingly. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed one of the remaining horsemen watching her closely, suspicion written clearly across his face. 

"Little one's not a dwarf, I'll warrant," he observed, loudly enough that at least one of his companions overheard, as well as most of the Company. Billa's heart jumped into her throat, and Nikû's grip tightened on her hand with fearful strength.

"I would watch thy tongue, human." Nikû's voice became a dangerously polite rumble, and she maneuvered herself between Billa and the horseman. The halfling's eyes watered slightly with the pain of having her fingers crushed, but said nothing.

The horseman decided (wisely) not to reply directly, but as he urged his steed past them, Billa distinctly heard him mutter the word "halfbreed." She shivered and looked fearfully up at Nikû, who glanced over her head at Dori, who stood very close behind them.. She said something softly in Khuzdul, and Dori nodded solemnly.

"Come," said Nikû quietly, and knelt beside her. She tugged the foot coverings from Billa's pocket, and the halfling might had screamed in frustration if it wouldn't have brought disaster down on their heads. She allowed the dwarrowdam to help her put the cursed things on again.

"Best I carry you," Nikû said in an undertone, scooping up the unfortunate hobbit again and settling her on her hip. Billa was too frightened to be very upset, and held still, gripping the dwarrowdam's clothes tightly as she could. The boy knowing she was a halfling was one thing - a stranger from Rohan, quite another. Word could so easily get around to Dain, or whoever might be pursuing them. The fear faded with time and exhaustion, however, and the suspicious horseman said no more that she could hear. 

The few times she dared let her gaze wander to Thorin, she could tell he was just as anxious as she, his fists clenched, his mouth tightly shut, his eyes straight ahead. Balin did most of the talking, amiable as ever, and managed to warm up to the leader, who even chuckled a little in the midst of Balin's friendly banter. Billa didn't know how he could be so calm, so unflappable. After all they'd been through at the hands of humans of late, he could still jest with them as though they were close kin. 

"I'm afraid we were rather too harsh in our dealings with you," the horseman said at last, tone betraying faint remorse. "I see you are good folk, and I can say that of few enough I meet these days in the wilds. My lord the prince is right to be cautious, but in his caution, perhaps he does not judge as rightly as he ought."

"Many kings make hasty decisions when they need to protect their people," said Balin, his manner becoming suddenly somber.

"Aye," added Dwalin, and his voice was thick with something Billa hesitated to identify, even as an emotion. "Trust is hard to come by, and even rarer are the folk who can earn it."

There was a brief silence, as each contemplated his own thoughts. Billa wondered what these Big Folk truly thought, and if there would ever be anything normal in the world again.

"These are dreary thoughts for so bright a day," said Balin, breaking the mood. "Bofur, why don't you tell us a story? It's been quite a long time since you regaled us with a tale of your days as a trader."

Bofur hesitated a moment, seeming uncertain. He'd been very quiet of late, as if constantly lost in thought, and Billa wondered if he'd ever revert back to the irrepressibly cheerful soul he'd once been.

"I've a few tales, right enough," he said finally, grinning in a way that felt oddly hollow. "One comes t'mind... concerns my late brother, Mahal rest 'im. Bifur, 'is name was. Any'ow, Bifur comes to me one day while we're stayin' in an inn along the Greenway. Now, 'e weren't really the talkative type, not since takin' an ax to the 'ead, so on 'e goes with 'is signin', and somethin's got 'im mighty stirred up, 'cause 'e can't string a sentence together in any sensible way. Somethin' about a 'lass' needin' my 'help.'" Here he grinned again, tugging on one of the ears of his hat. 

He seemed to be relaxing as he talked, and Billa was happy to see it. It was disconcerting to see the gregarious dwarf so withdrawn. Now, at least, his grin didn't seem so much like a hollow eggshell.

"Any'ow, I got 'im calm enough to lead me back to the damsel in question, and blow me if she weren't the prettiest thing I'd seen in weeks. If she'd 'ad a beard, she'd'a-" Bofur's gaze snagged on the curious face of the swarthy boy, and he hesitated. "Anyway, she seemed pretty near ta cryin', and I asked her why a beautiful thing like 'er would be so upset. She says to me, she says 'Oh, there's naught you can do, li'l man, but thank ye kindly all the same.' I weren't gonna be put off like that, so I asks again, I says 'Now, surely there's  _ somethin' _ I can do for a lonely lass like yerself. At least let me buy ye a drink, so's ye can calm down.'" Bofur was really warming up to his tale, gesturing expansively as they walked. "'No drink would 'elp me,' she says, 'ye see, a man jus' stole all the money I 'ave in the world, an' I don' know 'ow I'll get te my fam'ly.' I should'a seen then that she were playin' me for a fool, but I've got a soft spot fer the pretty ones, an' I went along wit' 'er te get 'er coin back."

Bofur paused to touch his nose conspiratorially, and winked at his audience. "Weren't her coin, no sir, but 'ow was I to know? After all, Bif was in such a way - I didn' learn 'til later that the fair lady 'ad tried te woo me 'andsome brother an' cut 'is purse, but Bif never was much of a ladies' man. 'E was more worried about th' woman cryin' than 'ow 'e'd almost lost 'is purse to 'er."

Dori's eye roll was clear in his tone. "Serves you both right. I'd of known plain enough what she was after."

"Well, it weren't all that simple, oh no." Bofur grinned at Dori in a way that made the prim dwarf look away uncomfortably. "Turns out she were more of an opportunist than anythin', and when she saw 'ow fast I thwarted 'er plans to get at my coin, she changed 'er tune entirely, tried to recruit me to 'er gang o' thieves!"

"Really?" Dori slanted a skeptical look at the hatted dwarf. "A simpleton like you, invited to thievery by a scoundrel woman. A likely tale. I suppose next you'll say my brother was involved somehow." He crossed his arms, smirking. 

"Ye know..." Bofur scratched under his hat, smiling crookedly, "now that ye mention it, 'e might'a been. Seems like the kinda thing Nori would'a been in the middle of."

Dori opened his mouth, righteous indignation on the tip of his tongue. But it was never to be released.

"Wist!" The horseman waved his hand sharply, by some unknown signal bringing his steed to a halt. The other riders followed suit, and after some amount of unsure stamping and snorting, the horses were quiet and still.

"What is it?" Balin glanced about, fear blanketing the Company like a heavy mantle. 

When Domand spoke at last, he was frowning slightly as he squinted into the distance. His tone made Billa shiver. "A rider comes this way at great speed, as though the devil drove him. A rider in grey, on a black horse." He looked at his companions, as though checking to make sure he had seen correctly. No one contradicted him. Billa could feel the dwarves drawing close around her, and Nikû held her a little tighter.

"An old man," said one of the other riders at length, using a hand to shade his eyes. "Domand, what should we do?" From the way he gripped his spear in his free hand, the young rider was readying himself for a fight. Domand looked down at the dwarves, then around at his men.

"Two of you, go to meet this traveler and see what he wants. The rest of you, keep the dwarves moving. Let it not be said the Rohirrim let their escort be taken."

As two riders peeled off from the group and started toward the lone traveler, the others urged their horses forward. The dwarves seemed to start reluctantly, but once they were moving, went along at a brisk pace. 

"An old man?" Billa whispered, stretching up closer to Nikû's ear. "Surely that can't be one of the Southron's-"

"I'm sure we'll find out soon." Nikû's firm hand on the hobbit's side gave something of a reassuring squeeze, and Billa relaxed a little. "Anyway, the whole group of us is surely a match for an old man if he intends violence, even without our escort."

"A spy, I'll warrant," Dwalin growled nearby.

"If he's a spy," responded Balin softly, "then he's a poor example."

"Even a poor spy can tell 'is master where we are," growled Glóin. The whole Company was on edge. Only Thorin remained silent, his face set in a stony, unreadable frown. He was closer to Billa than he'd been in days, and she reached out to grasp a handful of his sleeve, desperate for his comfort, if only vicariously. The dark-haired dwarf glanced at her, but otherwise didn't acknowledge her presence.

"Who are you running from?" It was the boy who whispered the question, and at that, the dwarves fell silent for a tense moment or two.

"It's not something we want to talk about, lad."

Galan. That was his name. Billa watched him, frightened by what he might have learned. He seemed worried, though, and that was normal for someone who had just discovered that his party might be hunted by unknown foes. 

"My life is on the line now, same as all of yours," the lad persisted, frowning at Thorin. "Tell me what's going on. I'll be better able to help if I know."

Thorin's eyes darted briefly to Billa's as the group continued to move, before settling once more on Galan's. "Suffice it to say we are in danger. From who and what is not yours to know."

Billa's heart thrilled slightly at this ephemeral acknowledgement from her One, and she found herself wishing in this moment for nothing more than to be in _his_ arms again, the danger passed, this... distance between them bridged at last.

The boy threw up his hands. "After all I've- you _still_ don't trust me? I never held anything back from you. I thought-"

"Quiet, lad." Balin's tone was gentle, but firm. "Now's not the time." 

Galan subsided, though he had a mutinous expression on his face. He was angry at finding his companions didn't trust him, and Billa couldn't say she really blamed him for that. She remembered the burn of shame and betrayal when Thorin refused to let her help at all, confined her to playacting a child. Thinking about it brought the pain back to the surface again. Consumed with these fretful thoughts, the halfling only noticed the approaching riders when Nikû came to a halt, looking past Bofur's shifting outline to the three riders trotting toward them. Two were the armored Rohirrim Domand had sent. The third was-

"Mr. Gandalf!" Dori's cry of surprise preempted the greeting Billa had been about to voice, and her words died, leaden and silent on her tongue.

The Wizard looked haggard, as though he hadn't slept in several days. His blue eyes were sharp, however, as he scanned the group, and relaxed.

"Thank the Valar. Jolan, your services have been most helpful. You and your men may go. I'll see them the rest of the way to the border."

The riders looked at Domand, who frowned. "You look as though orcs had burned your home. What brings you here, Grey Pilgrim, and what business have you with these dwarves?"

"Business?" Gandalf chuckled grimly, leveling what Billa thought might have been a sympathetic gaze on Thorin. "Just the usual, I'm afraid. At least I've found you. That's more good fortune than we might've expected."

Thorin looked some mixture of affronted and ashamed, as though Gandalf knowing of his predicament were somehow an unbearable concept. He quickly mastered himself, though, his face relaxing by willful degrees. "I was beginning to think you'd fallen off the map, Gandalf," he said at last, crossing his arms in a convicting sort of way.

"Many thought the same of you, my friend," the wizard returned, running a hand through his beard. "Well, now we know otherwise." His gaze moved once more to Domand. "As I said, these dwarves are in my keeping now. You may return to your king and tell him the same. I'll see they cause no trouble."

"As if that was ever our intent," Thorin muttered, though Billa was certain she was one of the few to hear him.

The halfling suffered the desire to kick the dwarf and tell him to behave, but as with most such thoughts (all of them recently) she swallowed it and looked away, saying nothing. Gandalf caught her gaze then, and Billa felt a flush of shame cross her cheeks. She directed her gaze to the hateful foot coverings, hoping the heat in her face wasn't too visible. It was bad enough that they had to carry on this farce for weeks on end, but Gandalf knowing seemed to make it many times worse.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the old man lift an eyebrow. She could only imagine what he thought, seeing her balanced on the hip of another woman, as though she were a toddler. Nikû even wore a sling across her back, so she might carry her "little one" without tiring her arms.

Domand, however, wasn't willing to give up the Wizard's attention to another. He gripped his spear a little tighter and his steed moved forward a step, so he and Gandalf were beside one another.

"I've been charged with the task of seeing these dwarves to the border. Would you have me return to Edoras and explain to King Thengel that I left a mission unfinished that the prince himself gave me?" 

"No." Gandalf shook his head. "I expect you to explain to Thengel that your mission was no longer necessary when I arrived. You know well the trust he places in me. Anyway, if he is angry, his wrath will not be visited upon you, I think."

Billa wondered in passing what sort of dealings the Wizard had had with Rohan, and whether his reputation here was better or worse than the one he had developed in the Shire.

"Gandalf, why not let them stay with us?" Balin shrugged lightly, and Billa noticed his beard was now nearly long enough to touch the front closures of his tattered red velvet coat. "It's not worth an argument, is it? Besides, we've not much further to go."

The halfling watched the old dwarf for a moment, then looked at Thorin, noting with a feeling of mild surprise that her One had begun to plait his beard into a thick braid, almost as big around as her wrist. She had noticed it before, and admired it from afar, but contrasting that now to Balin's frayed white bristles... it made Balin look so very old and worn out. It worried her, to realize the dwarf was well past his prime. She'd never thought of him as "old," so much as just... grandfatherly. Kindly and wise. Now, though he smiled and his blue eyes twinkled up at Gandalf, it struck Billa that her friend must be very, very tired.

Gandalf was shaking his head, grey beard wagging comically to and fro. "I think it's best if you and your men go now. Thank you for your concern. Give my regards to your king." The Wizard turned his steed away from the riders and frowned down at the Company. Or what was left of it, anyway. "Where are the others?"

"They... remained behind." Thorin's response hinted at secrecy, and Gandalf didn't pry further (Billa's current predicament was strongly indicative, anyway, on that point). He nodded. 

"I see. Well, then, we've little time to lose. You'll gather provisions in the next town, sleep as you may until dawn, and then we must move on." 

"To where?" Thorin took a step nearer the Wizard. "Ered Luin? Or is that, too, now unsafe? You knew where to find us, so I assume you must have  _ some _ news." 

Gandalf shook his head again, as Domand and the other reluctantly moved off.

"We must go to Rivendell. There are those who can help us there. Forces work against us now that haven't stirred many years. More is at stake than your lives, or even your home."

Billa paled slightly at the portent in the Wizard's tone. It hadn't occurred to her, that their little company mightn't be the only ones in danger - that some other, larger evil was stirring in the world. Something bigger than Dain and his ambitions. 

Thorin studied Gandalf a moment, and his gaze softened to what looked like sudden weariness. "I will speak with you in confidence." 

"Good," Gandalf returned. "So long as you keep moving meanwhile." 

Thorin's expression tightened slightly, as did his fists, but he said nothing to contradict Gandalf's apparent assumption that he had taken control of the Company by right of being present. Billa could see how much it bothered the dwarf, though, and wished she could comfort him.

"Galan, we've reached your destination. I suggest you ask one of our escort to assist you to your kin, wherever they might be." Thorin's tone was perhaps a little sharper than necessary, but that didn't justify the boy's dark scowl.

"Not until you tell me what's going on! I've done everything I can for you lot, but-"

"Be grateful we let ye come this far with us," growled Dwalin, cutting him off. "You asked to stay with us until we reached Rohan. Here we are. Now shift yerself, before I do it for ye."

"We agreed to take you this far, lad," Balin said softly, frowning at his brother in distaste. "Where we go from here is nowhere you would want to follow. Thank you for your service, but this is goodbye." He patted the boy's arm, but Galan jerked it away.

"Have it your way, then. I should've known what sort you lot were when I took up with you. Don't trust anyone but your own, suspicious and unkind, every one of you."

He took a few tentative steps after Domand, then turned again, evidently having come up with a parting shot.

"You might've needed my help, you know. You might've. Well, you won't have it now. I'm on my own."

"We get the point," muttered Dori unhelpfully. "No need to keep going on about it." 

_ That could have been me, _ Billa realized with a sinking feeling. She remembered the first weeks of the Quest, traveling through the Shire and its outskirts. The Company had neither trusted nor valued her. She had been an outsider, a tagalong... a burden. That, she was sure, was how Galan felt now, and sympathy welled up in her as she watched him leave, shoulders stiff. 

He was forgotten quickly, however. Gandalf had a way of drawing others into his personal focus, and at the moment, that seemed to be getting them all to Rivendell. As the group moved out, Thorin and the wizard fell back. Gandalf had dismounted, and was now leading his horse, which the others had quickly loaded with what meager supplies they'd been carrying up until then.

No longer needing to disguise herself as a dwarrow, Billa had removed the foot coverings again, and was quite happily walking once more through the relatively short, swaying grass. Nikû and she remained - perhaps intentionally - back toward the rear, but Billa caught very little of her One's discussion with Gandalf. It was clear Thorin wasn't pleased, but with what, exactly, Billa couldn't say. She supposed he'd tell her later, now that - and this thought brought on a sudden burst of joy - all need for pretense and secrecy had passed. Things would return to normal between them. He would stop ignoring her. 

The halfling had only just decided to work her way back through the grass to reach Thorin when the dwarf let out a snarl of protest that was loud enough for all to hear.

"And what business of Elrond's are the affairs of my kin?"

Gandalf's response was as quiet as before, but his expression was tight and strained. Billa hurried at as quick a pace as her legs would allow, with stiff knees and aching calves from such prolonged inactivity. As she approached, Gandalf finished speaking and glanced at her, lifting one tangled eyebrow in greeting.

"What's this about Rivendell?" Billa looked to Thorin for an explanation, and saw that he wore a thunderous scowl. 

"Now is not the time for your prejudices," Gandalf said, not really answering Billa's question. "You owe Lord Elrond your life; or have you forgotten the service he rendered you after the Battle?"

Thorin's scowl eased marginally, as though stones were being pried from his defensive bastion. A life-debt was no small matter, even in extraordinary circumstances. "I have not forgotten. All the same, he has asked no service of me, and I am content that our paths remain separate. The exile of a dwarven King is not the business of elves, and brings great shame upon us all."

Gandalf sighed, tossing his gaze imploringly skyward. "This is no longer about your pride, Thorin, nor even that of the entire dwarven people. I told you there were greater things at stake here."

"What things?" Billa asked, that same sense of dread she'd felt before crawling once more up her spine.

The Wizard looked down at Billa, and for the space of a beat or two, all she could hear was the swish of his robe around his long legs.

"Things that I wish you didn't have to face." Gandalf's tone was so mournful, so solemn, that the hobbit felt a shudder rush through her as the words chased themselves around her mind. Billa reached for Thorin's arm, grasping his sleeve for comfort.

"Thorin, don't you think we should listen to him? Elrond probably knows more about what's going on than we do - and you know Kíli and Tauriel are in Rivendell, too. We can-"

"What?" Gandalf looked startled as he interrupted her, and Billa felt a measure of pleasure at having caught the old man off-guard for once. The pleasure, however, wasn't untainted by fear. Gandalf's blue eyes turned on Thorin, as though this were somehow his fault "Your nephew and his lady are with Lord Elrond? How long have they been there? Have you received word from them?"

Thorin crossed his arms, clearly puzzled by Gandalf's onslaught of questions. "And why does this concern you so, Wizard? Of what importance is the whereabouts of my nephew?" Gandalf hesitated visibly, and his discomposure frightened Billa more than she wanted to admit.

"I have... a theory," answered the Wizard at length, though he avoided Thorin's gaze. "But if Kíli is with Lord Elrond, then he might be able to confirm my suspicions or lay them to rest. Please, tell me quickly, has he contacted you or not?" 

"Not since before... we left Erebor." The letter from Dís, the one that had come in advance of her arrival at the Mountain. Well, it hadn't exactly been from Kíli, but it was the last they'd heard of him and Tauriel. "And what might your theory be?" Concern was quickly overpowering the dwarf's annoyance with Gandalf. Billa didn't like the idea of yet another weight upon Thorin's mind, but she knew  _ not _ knowing would make him even more anxious. 

Billa noticed the Wizard's gaze slid away from Thorin, and she knew in a sinking, disappointed way that Gandalf wasn't going to tell them. Just another secret, another thing that was being kept from them. An important thing, and one that could affect the rest of their lives, however short that might be. Before, perhaps that thought wouldn't have bothered her much, but now her thoughts turned to the unborn child she carried in her belly, and an icy thrill of fear coursed through her.

"Are you cold, my dear?" Gandalf was looking at her again. Billa set her jaw, but she could hear concern in the old man's tone that stilled her indignant protests. "I thought perhaps, with you being somewhat better insulated than you were when I left, that wouldn't be a problem anymore." His eyes traveled over her waist, and Billa stiffened, more than a little insulted and humiliated by his blunt manner. One simply didn't bandy about such private matters in public,  _ especially _ when one didn't know what of one spoke! Because he didn't know… right?

Thorin's gaze darted between her and the Wizard, filled with something like incredulity. Gandalf knew. Thorin's reaction confirmed Billa's growing fear, and heat rushed into her cheeks. This particular reaction had the effect of making Thorin turn away a moment, embarrassment plain on his face. 

"Oh, it's nothing to be ashamed of, Billa." The Wizard's words didn't comfort her in the slightest; nor did the slightly smug expression he wore. He seemed almost  _ pleased _ which was even worse than him simply knowing, which he shouldn't have! 

"It's... none of your concern," Thorin managed to choke out. The rest of the Company pretended to have heard none of the exchange, despite the dead silence that had fallen over them since Billa had joined the discussion with Gandalf.

"Oh, I think it's very much my concern," countered the old man, his smug expression fading into something more somber. "Anything that might distract you from the immediate danger is more my concern than you could know."

Billa felt a surge of something like embarrassment, but stronger. Deeper. Angrier. Soon the embarrassment was completely eclipsed by indignant outrage.

"Contrary to what you seem to think, Gandalf, I am  _ not _ your plaything. So kindly keep your nose where it belongs before I teach you some manners." Her words alone weren't all that threatening, but her tone was so harsh, so angry, that Balin drifted hesitantly closer, half reaching for her.

Maddeningly, Gandalf seemed unperturbed. "Billa Baggins, I am not 'prying into your business' for my own personal amusement - this concerns the safety of us all. Your little one included." 

There was a beat of silence, made all the heavier by the sudden lack of footfalls, since by now everyone had stopped. Thorin drew himself up slightly, shoulders squared. "She is  _ my _ concern now. Not yours." His voice had sunk to a growl, heavy with offense. "I'll thank you not to overstep your bounds where Billa is concerned, though you presume to meddle in all my other affairs."

Barely an instant after the words had left his lips, Billa turned on him, bristling like an angry cat. "Oh, so now I'm one of your  _ affairs, _ am I? Is that all I am now? An  _ affair? _ "

Thorin took a step back, momentarily startled out of his threatening posture. The halfling advanced on him, teeth bared, spitting accusations like curses. Balin grasped her arm to restrain her, but Billa shook him off with a snarl. A moment later, Gandalf grasped her shoulder and pulled her back.

"I belong to no one!" she hissed, wrenching away from the old man. Gandalf released her as though his hands had been scalded, eyes wide with shock.

Billa stood, panting, and as she turned to look at Thorin, she saw his guarded expression. Her outrage faltered, wavered, then drained away, liquid fire quenched and leaving her feeling cold and empty.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't...."

Thorin took a step toward her, clearly too stunned to be as angry as Billa felt she deserved. Too stunned to give her an immediate reply. His eyes were dark blue, wounded and haughty, and they pierced her like jagged shards of glass.

"I thought we belonged to each other," he said stiffly. "But if you'd rather be on your own... no one is keeping you here."

He brushed past her before she could reply, moving swiftly through the others to reach the head of the shocked Company. 

Billa let out a strangled sort of whimper, and turned to watch him.

_If he can't see that I didn't mean it, then maybe he hasn't stopped ignoring me yet._ The thought had a flavor of desperate, slightly malicious self-justification. It didn't help. Angry, hurt tears welled in her eyes, and Billa wanted to scream, but her throat was too tight. It wasn't fair. Things were supposed to be _better_ now.

"Billa Baggins," began Gandalf, in that grave voice that said "you should know better" with its disapproving tone.

"Don't, Gandalf. Just, don't say anything. Please."

The Wizard pursed his lips slightly, then seemed to think better of defying her wishes. He sighed, putting a hand on her shoulder. They walked this way for some time afterward, and Billa was grateful when the ghastly silence was filled in with hushed conversation once more. She was even more grateful the others had the courtesy not to speak of what had just happened, though she could see by the occasional backward glance, the furtive looks of confusion or sympathy, that it wasn't far from their minds, however unrelated their conversation had become.

"I... don't know what came over me," the hobbit admitted at last, shaking her head. "I just... it touched a nerve. I didn't realize it bothered me that much. It shouldn't have. I mean - it _doesn't_."

Gandalf's hand on her shoulder tightened a little, and Billa felt the pressure like she felt the nausea building in her stomach - distant, somehow. Like a voice half-hidden by the rushing of water. The world seemed distant, concealed by the curtain of a black buzzing in her ears. The hobbit shook her head again. It wasn't a sound so much as a feeling, but it wasn't just a feeling, it was also a sound, a color, a sour taste on the back of her tongue. It made her feel ill, but not so much that she would ever admit it.

"It doesn't bother you," agreed Gandalf, his voice almost a whisper, "but perhaps it bothers... someone else."

He was blaming her baby? Billa felt a second surge of anger, this one stronger than the last, so strong she could taste it. Bile. That's what it tasted like.

"You  _ dare _ imply-" she began, her voice a hiss of outrage. Gandalf's hand squeezed her shoulder again, and it was almost like he'd popped a joint back into place. The black buzzing disappeared, and her anger evaporated, leaving her feeling dazed. When she looked up at him again, Gandalf wore an expression of deep concern and wariness.

"This is beyond you, my dear. I fear it may even be beyond me. Excuse me a moment." He released her shoulder without giving her a chance to ask any more questions, and indicated to Dori, who was closest, to keep Billa close.

Bofur was leading Gandalf's horse now, and Billa watched as the Wizard made his way to the front of the Company. She felt very alone. Not even amongst her revenge-bent captors had she felt so... lost. At least then, she knew nothing had changed between herself and Thorin. Dori slowed to walk beside her, and she acknowledged his sympathetic look with something that probably looked more like a wince than a smile. "Made quite a fool of myself, haven't I?" 

"I wouldn't say that, ma'am," answered Dori, his tone gentle and cautious in a way Billa both resented and appreciated. "You've been under more stress than any creature ought - it's understandable that even you would reach an end of patience."

Even you. Billa felt soothed by the words. It was nice to know Dori still thought so highly of her. She watched as Gandalf exchanged a few quiet words with Bofur, gesturing to the horse, and then lengthened his stride to walk next to Thorin. Their conversation, what she could see of it, was tense and angry. Several times, her One looked back at her as Gandalf gestured in her direction. She watched them, hoping Thorin would give her the chance to apologize.

He didn't. In fact, the way he looked at her, she could see her careless words weren't the basis of the argument with Gandalf at all. He was trying to decide something - something he didn't like at all. 

"Take her, then." Billa didn't hear the words so much as sensed them, and she felt her throat tighten painfully. Take her  _ where? _ Back to the Shire? He couldn't mean it. She wouldn't believe it. 

"Th- Thorin... wait." The plea scarcely escaped her constricted throat, and probably no one besides Dori heard it. "Wait!" She tried again, shrugging off Dori's arm and struggling to make her feet work. She fought against the cold and numbness rushing into her cheeks, plunging to the fore like one possessed. Her goal faded. A moment later she was on the ground, consciousness blurred but slowly clearing. 

"I'm fine," she croaked, batting away at least three sets of hands. "Let me up, I'm fine." 

She had the feeling they didn't believe her. In any case, the hands didn't go away. It unsettled her that she couldn't even focus well enough to know  _ whose _ hands they were. A particularly persistent pair of hands made their way past Billa's protests, under her body, lifting her by the shoulders and knees, cradling her against a broad, hard chest. The hobbit sneezed, her nose filling with the scent of charcoal and warm leather.

"I'll do anything to keep you safe." Thorin's voice rumbled, vibrated through his chest and into Billa's body. "Even... even send you away." His words seemed to falter and fade. Billa grasped at his collar, panic welling up in her chest.

"I'm sorry." She knew that it was pointless now, but a voice in her brain (on that sounded remarkably like her ever-polite father) insisted that if she could just apologize, maybe disaster would be averted. "Please, Thorin, I'm sorry. I d-didn't mean it. I'm sorry." The world was gradually coming into focus again. She could see his face, and the unhappiness there.

"It is... beyond that now." Gandalf's voice intruded upon her narrow view of the world. "You carry a burden you cannot begin to comprehend. It is destroying you." Billa's head snapped away from Thorin at that, sudden anger welling up within her again. 

"I don't know what you mean! You have no-" 

"Wait." The calm authority of the Wizard's voice broke her from her instinctual tirade, and she took a breath, working to release the tightness in her chest, the anger she didn't understand that seemed to flare up as it wished, like a draft on sleeping coals.

"Understand, Billa, I cannot let you remain here. You are in danger - all of you are in greater danger than you can know. I will take you to Rivendell. Lord Elrond can protect you there for a time, and Thorin and the others will join us in due course." The old man's voice sounded... tired. So very tired. Almost frightened. Billa felt heat and pressure and an uncomfortable, nauseous twisting in her belly as outrage swelled and flared and found no outlet.

"Don't send me away," she begged, looking at Thorin again. "Don't. I can't...."

But she could see the decision had already been made. Pain lined Thorin's taut face, and he held her closer than ever.

"We don't have a choice."

"Billa... we need to go." Gandalf was close, but she couldn't bring herself to look at him.

"Can't I have a moment alone with my husband?" the halfling snapped. "If you're going to force me to leave, you can at least give me that."

Gandalf nodded gravely, though Billa could see in the look he directed at Thorin shades of  _ Don't make this more difficult than it has to be. _ Slowly, Thorin carried her apart from the rest, moving around the shady side of a mossy boulder. A moment of silence, but Billa knew he'd speak first, somehow. 

"You've changed, Billa." 

"I  _ know _ I have. Thorin, we've been through alot together-" 

"I'm not talking about that." 

"You're... not? Then what-" 

"You don't even realize what that thing is doing to you, do you? You can't see it. Not truly, anyway. I was the same once; I  _ know. _ " His dark lashes fluttered as he looked away, the way they often did when he spoke of something intensely personal. Uncomfortable. Painful.

Once, she might have felt pity. Once, she might have kissed his nose and apologized for bringing up a painful topic. Now Billa felt nothing but fear and frustration.

"I can't see  _ what? _ Stars above, Thorin, I'm not a mind-reader. Or do you not trust me? Is that it? Afraid to tell me anything, because all I'll do is get in the way?" Billa arrested her tongue with an effort, and forced herself to breathe. Closing her eyes, she pulled a trembling hand from her pocket. She shoved the cool, heavy gold ring into his hand, nearly cutting herself with her own nails in her reluctance to release the precious thing. It was like a physical, burning pain, letting it go, and immediately, she felt sick with tension, as though she weren't safe without it. But she let it go all the same. Forced herself to close Thorin's fingers around it.

"I trust you, Thorin. More than anyone or anything in the whole world. I love you. Please... don't forget that."

Thorin looked stunned. Or frightened. Or some disconcerting combination of the two. He opened his hand, features tightening as he gazed at the sleek circle of gold in his palm. His eyes narrowed, as though he held a poisonous insect and not a piece of precious metal. "You're... giving it to me?" 

She nodded, working hard to keep her eyes on him, despite their nigh insatiable longing to turn upon the ring. 

He swallowed, shaking his head. "No... Billa, if anything, Gandalf should have it. I want nothing more to do with such things. Already I feel as though..." He scoffed at himself. "But that's foolish. A trick of the mind."

"No." Maybe the word came out too fast. Too harsh. Billa shuddered, and stole a hungry glance at it. No. Dragging her gaze back to Thorin's face, she shook her head. "No, I don't want Gandalf to have it. It's not his, it's none of his business. It's  _ mine, _ " there was a brief, impossibly heavy pause, "and I'm giving it to you."

Thorin appeared to give the matter some thought, gaze flicking between hers and the Ring. Then he nodded, though he looked no less troubled. "As you wish." He quickly tucked the glittering thing into an inner pocket, and it was as if some mesmerising, intoxicating miasma evaporated in an instant, leaving just the two of them. The distant chatter of the others - all but unheard before - held sway a moment. 

"Billa," Thorin said presently, his voice thick , "promise me one thing. Promise me... you'll be safe." 

His voice seemed to come through an odd haze. It was as though two parts of her were warring, as though the entire Battle of the Five Armies were raging in her chest. The image of his hand tucking away the ring,  _ her _ ring, was all she could see for a span of terrible seconds. On the one hand, she wanted to tear it away from him. It was hers, she had found it, she had won it fair and square.

On the other hand, she wanted him to know her love for him was stronger than her love for anything gold. That she trusted him with more than her life.

A knot in her chest loosened, and breathing became a little easier. "I'll do my best," she said faintly, and pressed her cheek against his chest. Warm leather, woodsmoke, and damp moss. The scents seemed to ground her. She could hear Balin and Dori now, bickering quietly over how necessary tea was to a comfortable camp. It was soothing. And somehow, the frustration and tension of the past few weeks melted away as Thorin held her, because she was back where she belonged. In his arms. But for how much longer?

"Thorin," Gandalf's stern voice rose nearby, "it is time." With a low sigh, the dwarf moved out from the shelter of the boulder, eyes downcast. The Wizard retrieved the hobbit without a word, lifting her easily into the horse's saddle. Aware once more of her surroundings, Billa clung to the beast's mane like a leech, feeling quite as though she'd achieved some dangerous elevation. 

"Thorin-" Balin spoke warily. "I've a feeling..." 

"It is necessary." Thorin's firm pronouncement silenced the old dwarf's doubts, and a moment later, Gandalf, too, was in the saddle and the horse was stamping anxiously, as though it had an inkling to the great speed that would soon be required of it. 

"I  _ will _ get her to safety," the Wizard leaned toward Thorin, words hushed but sure. "On that, you have my word. Now, remember what I told you - you must be careful. Trust no one you meet along the way, and move as swiftly and quietly as you can. Once I have entrusted Miss Baggins into Lord Elrond's keeping, I will return. It will be a few days, a week at most."

Billa looked down, the height both disorienting and somewhat frightening as she realized how far below her Thorin was. "Don't forget," she said, and was surprised by how steady her voice was.

Thorin met her gaze and nodded solemnly, as though he were taking an oath. "I won't forget."

Gandalf shifted, the horse pranced, and like that, they were off, speeding over the land faster than Billa could ever remember going in her entire life. Clutching at the horse's mane, the halfling squeezed her eyes shut and prayed she wouldn't fall off.


	22. Kíli; Delayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli and Tauriel receive unexpected guests in Rivendell, and humorous stories are shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you might be aware, Loki and I are both ramping up for big life changes. Loki is preparing to leave for New Zealand next month, while I'm in the process of interviewing potential housemates. So please, bear with us a little longer as we update once a month. Hopefully we'll be able to get back to a more frequent updating schedule when things settle again.   
> (I'm beginning to fear things will NEVER settle!)

The endless shush-shush of the water through the reeds, the gurgle of water over rocks. Monotonous, unending, hour after hour. Like nothing ever changed. Kíli realized he was staring at Tauriel again, and she was looking back at him. And there was that worried crease between her slender eyebrows. It never seemed to leave anymore. As though concern for him was an overriding emotion now.

The dwarf felt... old. Like the weight of his uncle's demise had robbed him of years of youth. Kíli wanted to tell Tauriel that he was fine, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. Not even to comfort her. The elleth had her feet in the cold water. It helped, she said, with the ache in her ankles.

The only warning they had of company was the patter of elven feet on the stone path. Kíli turned to see an elf with a bright, youthful face dash into view, eyes wide with excitement. "Master Kíli, please come at once! There are dwarves in the Valley. They say they're part of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield."

Kíli straightened in surprise, then pushed himself quickly to his feet. Who could it be? Dwalin, maybe? Dwalin could've survived just about anything. Or Glóin, the stubborn old goat. "Where are they? Take me to them." Kíli knew he sounded half-mad with desperate hope, but didn't care. "Tauriel," he glanced back at the elleth, half-apologetic. "I'll be back in a minute." 

"Take your time, love," she urged softly, and smiled. "I'll be here when you return." It was good, Kíli thought in passing, to see the lines in her face eased, to see relief in her eyes. 

No sooner had he thought it than it had passed from his mind, swept away by soaring hope. He didn't dare put words to it... but he prayed to Mahal that his uncle had somehow miraculously survived. For once, he had no trouble keeping up with the elf as they ran down the path together, his boots clapping loudly against the stone while the elf's bare feet made almost no sound at all.

Elrond was waiting for them, standing near the doorway of a large room that seemed to serve no other purpose than to give waiting visitors a place to sit. The elf lord smiled at Kíli and nodded slightly as he passed. Kíli might have given him a perfunctory bow, but if he had, he didn't remember. He rounded the corner and his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

"Fíli." The name tore itself from his lips, weak with relief. There was his brother, sound and whole, looking up at him with a broad, tired grin.

"Hello, Brother."

The greeting had scarcely escaped Fíli before his brother had his arms around him, tears soaking into his shirt. "Fee, I thought you were-" 

"I'm fine." 

"Don't you believe him," Ori said, giggling with obvious relief. "He'd say he was fine if he had six arrows in his back and no legs to stand on." 

Kíli grinned through his tears. "That's what we used to say about Uncle." 

Fíli nodded, chuckling grimly. "Aye. So you know, then? Somehow, the news must've... ." 

Kíli lowered his gaze, sighing. "We just- we weren't sure about the rest. Only Billa and Thorin... I've known for a while now. Accepting it is... hard. Doesn't seem possible." 

A heavy beat of silence passed between them. Then someone coughed, and an unfamiliar voice spoke.

"A hot meal and a week's worth of sleep and you'll feel better. I guarantee it."

Kíli loosened his grip on his brother, looking about in surprise. There was a dwarrowdam, stockier and harder-looking than Ori, with rust-colored hair and beard. She was hardy and wild, and seemed to be keeping an eye on a muddy, blue-eyed elf.

"Who's this?"

"Ginii, daughter of Gomin, at your service." The dwarrowdam bowed. Kíli felt his brother's shoulders rise and fall under his arm.

"Ginii saved Ori's life, and helped us keep Gwínir alive, too. We owe her a great deal."

"Pleased to meet you." Kíli broke away from his brother to return the dwarrowdam's bow. "I'm sure Fíli's told you a few things about me. Lies, every one ." 

"If you're even half so charming as your brother," the muddy elf inserted dryly, "I'll consider myself fortunate." Kíli raised a brow at Fíli, who shrugged in feigned innocence. The elf looked so un-elven in his current state, Kíli decided, that he might possibly be mistaken for some sad human vagabond, if not for the fact that his nose seemed incapable of leaving the air. 

"You can consider yourself fortunate to be alive, Master Elf," Ginii said gruffly, eyes following her elven companion as he dropped what little he'd been carrying and half-collapsed onto a stone bench. 

"Gwínir needs a bath," Ori said wisely. "Then he'll warm up. He was getting right friendly there, up 'til the last day or so."

"Do you  _ realize _ how much mud and-and  _ filth _ we're wearing?" The elf's voice was so taut, stretched thin with anguish, it was nearly shrill. Kíli tried very hard not to laugh, and succeeded only in crying harder, smiling so wide it made his cheeks hurt. He grasped his brother again, holding him tight, and if anyone was judging him, he didn't care.

"Your rooms are ready for you," said Elrond's deep, smooth voice. Kíli imagined even the elf lord sounded less tense now. "Please, bathe, rest, and recover from your ordeal. Fresh clothes will be available for you, and when supper is ready, you'll be alerted."

Fíli and Ori looked utterly relieved as they turned toward the door, followed by Ginii, who helped Gwínir stand (though the elf seemed to resent her assistance). Kíli gave his brother one more hug before rushing pell-mell back to the stream where he'd left Tauriel, grinning from ear to ear.

"It's my brother and Ori." Kíli helped Tauriel to her feet, and she swayed dizzily a moment, the stream water pooling around her bare feet. 

"You're brother's alright? And any news of Thorin?" 

Kíli shook his head, the shadow of grief once more eclipsing his joy. "No. Thorin... didn't make it." 

Tauriel sighed. "I suppose it was too much to hope for. Still, I think your uncle would have been glad it was your brother who survived, if it came down to a choice between the two of them." Kíli took the elleth's arm, and they moved carefully back up the walkway, then diverted into the meticulously landscaped path through the gardens. It was longer, returning to the guest rooms by this particular route, but there were fewer stairs. 

"Oh! I forgot to mention," a smile returned to the young dwarf's face, "they came with an elf - probably from the Woodland Realm. Gwínir, I think they said. Anyone you know?" 

An expression of surprise flashed across Tauriel's angular face, green eyes widening slightly. "Gwínir? He's here?" The tone of disbelief in her words was hard to miss, and the dwarf wondered what was between his One and his brother's prissy elven guide.

"Yes. You know him?"

Tauriel seemed to consider the question, as though deciding how much to tell him. "Not well. He was a member of the Palace Guard, and rarely had anything to do with the Forest Guard." Kíli could tell there was more she wasn't saying, and that irked him a little.

"But you know him," he pressed. "By name. To me, that suggests-" 

"It suggests nothing." The elleth's tone was surprisingly strong, and Kíli subsided. Damn his silly suspicions, anyway. Now was hardly the time for them. 

"Sorry," he said, allowing his gaze to drift over the falls and the long, clean lines of stone beyond. "I just thought... the way you reacted. You seemed surprised."

"I was. I am." Tauriel's tone was gentler now, which was both comforting and irksome, though Kíli wasn't sure how that was possible. "I don't know him well, but I do know Gwínir has always disliked leaving our forest. This journey is... unlike anything I would have expected him to do."

"Oh, a homebody." Kíli nodded knowingly. "Seemed the type." 

"You've already asked Fíli about what happened, then? It's the same as Saruman said?" 

Kíli shook his head. "He mentioned it, but not in detail. I thought it could wait until... well, until dinner, at least."

The elleth looked troubled, but nodded. Kíli wondered if she felt it as deeply as he did. The loss, the pain... the emptiness and fear. Did she feel that, or was she just worried about him? Did it make a difference?

The rest of the walk was made in relative silence. They cleaned up and Tauriel changed into something more suitable for dinner with their host. Kíli watched her out of the corner of his eye, noting how she seemed to tire so easily now. She even sat as she dressed herself, which seemed a laborious process. Three new dresses had been made for her as a gift from Lord Elrond, more forgiving of her ever-thickening waistline than the clothes she'd brought with her. In some ways, it frightened Kíli to see the elleth so drained, so... weakened. He would never say so aloud, but he did think of it now and again.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Tauriel looked up from plaiting her hair into a thick braid, calling for the person to enter.

The door opened, and Ori peered through the opening at them, a smile spreading across her face. "I hoped you would be here."

Tauriel looked a little bemused. "Where else would I be?"

Clad in a clean wool tunic, her hair damp and braided, her face scrubbed, the dwarrowdam looked more herself as she entered, chuckling softly. "Wanted to congratulate you." She blushed slightly. "Both of you. Have you thought of a name for the little one yet?" 

"Little ones ," Kíli corrected, and winked at Tauriel. He was more than usually pleased to see Tauriel flush slightly, and Ori's eyes widened to the size of saucers, gravitating toward the elleth's swollen belly.

"Twins?" she breathed, a look of incredulous delight stealing over her face.

Tauriel nodded a self-conscious affirmative. "Twins. Not what I expected but... it seems little is, anymore."

"I'd like to help take care of them, after they're born... if that's alright with you, of course." Ori chuckled again. "If they're anything like him," she nodded toward Kíli, "they're bound to be a handful." 

"I don't know what you mean." Kíli's attempt at feigning insult failed to convince. He and his brother had been bundles of energy (so said Dís), bent on adventure and endless antics. He imagined the twins would probably get up to similar mischief, eventually. It seemed inevitable.

Tauriel nudged him as he joined her, and the dwarf couldn't help but grin. Everything seemed... smoother, more _right,_ now that his brother was back, was alive and well. Now that there was hope again.

"I would be grateful for any help you're willing to offer," murmured the elleth, turning her gaze on Ori. "I have little experience with children."

"I don't have much either, truth be told," Ori admitted sheepishly. Then her face brightened slightly. "We can learn together."

"Or die trying," Kíli added helpfully. He'd scarcely finished speaking when the mellow call of a horn rose outside, some ways distant, but clear as a bell.

"What's that?" Ori seemed a bit startled.

"Just the dinner announcement," Kíli explained, and opened the door. "Come on, then. We've been late to meals before, but I wouldn't suggest trying it again. Lord Elrond has ways of punishing the tardy."

"Oh, please," Tauriel rejoined. "All he did was lift an eyebrow at you."

"Like I said." Kíli grinned, and took his wife's hand.

Their progress toward the veranda where Elrond would undoubtedly be hosting dinner for their new guests was restricted to a leisurely pace by Tauriel's desire to appear coordinated as they walked. Kili kept a hand on her arm, supporting her when she swayed. These dizzy spells weren't as frequent as they might have been, and never serious enough to make her fall, but it still made the dwarf less than willing to allow her to walk alone.

They arrived at the table as Elrond gestured for his guests to sit. The elves at the table did so, but Fili stepped away from his seat and extended a hand to Ori. His hair was damp and neatly braided as well, his beard and mustache trimmed back into his favored style. Behind him, Ginii also remained standing, her manner one of calm adherence to age-old traditions. She reminded Kili a bit of Balin, now that he got a better look at her. She had the same calm, cheerful sort of resignation, though she looked nothing like him. Kili found that even though he didn't know her, he liked her and wanted to trust her.

"Whoa. Mam wasn't kidding when she warned us about you two." Fili's voice drew his attention back, and Kili saw that his brother was staring at Tauriel, looking both impressed and a little unnerved.

Ori discreetly elbowed her One, and he had the grace to look mildly apologetic as he helped her to her seat. Tauriel seemed unaffected by the comment, seating herself in her customary spot while Kíli stammered something out about his mother never "missing" anything.

The awkward silence that followed was quickly dispelled as Elrond stood.

"Welcome, guests, both new and familiar. Please, do not hesitate to make yourselves at home. I mean for my house to be a place of refuge for all travelers of good intent." He indicated where Ginii should sit, and the dwarrowdam bowed and moved to her place. "I am sorry, however," the elf lord went on, "that we are met under such circumstances. The loss of Thorin Oakenshield weighs heavily upon me, as does that of Billa Baggins, a most valiant and extraordinary halfling by all counts." 

Silence settled over them, and Kili shivered slightly, closing his eyes against a wave of grief that seemed to wash across the table, swallowing all in its path. Tauriel's heavy braid brushed his shoulder as she bowed her head, and he felt her slender fingers lace through his, reminding him that all was not lost. The grief wasn't as violent as it had been, eased by the presence of his brother.

"For now, let us eat, and take comfort in those that yet live." The elf lord clapped his hands, and immediately, servants filed quietly onto the veranda to serve them. The meal was a quiet affair, though Fili and Kili both made an effort to lighten the mood. They swapped jokes and stories about their uncle and their childhood, filling the empty spaces with fond memories.

When at last the meal was done, and the dishes cleared away, Elrond stood once more.

"Master Fíli," said the elf solemnly, and Kili looked up, his heart clenching at the thought of what was to come, "you are not required to share your tale, not now or at any other time. Yet for the sake of all, I request that you relate what befell you and your companions after departing Erebor."

Fíli nodded. The mistrust he'd developed for Thranduil's people seemed to have no bearing on his view of Elrond, and it was clear he respected the peredhil's counsel. Over the next few minutes, he gave his account, brief as he could, supplemented at intervals by Ori. When he had finished, Elrond looked very solemn. "You were not captured with your uncle, then. It's just as well. You may have shared his fate if you had." 

"His fate?" Fíli looked surprised. "So you know what happened to him? Details, I mean."

"Very few," confirmed Elrond seriously. Then he related receiving news of King Dain's engagement to the Lady Dís, and later, news from Saruman of Thorin's captivity, and eventual demise.

Fíli couldn't have looked more horrified if the elf had drawn a sword and plunged it into his breast. "Mam is...  _ marrying _ that traitor?" The words came out rough and strangled, as though he couldn't force his tongue to shape them properly.

Kíli felt a resurgence of his own anger injustice of it, only recently swamped by the more dire news of Thorin's death. "It's shameful," the young dwarf added, shaking his head. "I don't know what she's thinking. It's not like her. My thought was that, maybe-" 

"He's forcing her." Fíli finished for his brother, utter conviction in his tone. "That vile excuse for a dwarf..." He trailed off in disgust. "The worst thing is, it strengthens his claim to the throne of Erebor. Probably his plan all along." 

Kíli noticed that Tauriel remained silent, and so did Ori. Both females looked troubled. Obviously, they agreed and it disturbed them that such a thing could be forced on another. Exchanging a glance with his brother, they both nodded grimly. They would rescue their mother, whenever and however they could.

"It has been a trying day." Elrond was clearly trying to change the subject. Kíli allowed it because he didn't want to think on it any longer. "I will, I think retire to the Hall of Fire for a time, and remember less trying times. Any who wish to join me are welcome, as always."

The hall was aptly named, glowing with warmth from the three tall fireplaces blazing along the wall furthest the door. Long tables, a wide, spacious marble floor, and all bathed in flickering golden light. Kíli liked coming here. It reminded him of Thorin's halls in the Blue Mountains - built of clean, solid stone, warmed by flame, song, and good cheer. Tauriel wasn't feeling well, and had wanted to return to the guest quarters after dinner, but insisted Kíli stay and catch up with his brother. Now Fíli and Ori were sitting on the ledge before the fire, Kíli had pulled up a chair, and Elrond stood nearby, looking on pensively while a scattered group of elves mingled at the tables. All had mugs of a steaming, hearty drink Elrond had requested in impressive quantities from the kitchens. Very elven, Kíli thought it, sweet and mildly spiced, thickened with cream, brightened with a dash of strong liquor. Thorin would've thought it "weak." 

"How soon will she be having them, then?" Ori's question broke Kíli from his thoughts, and he squinted at her silhouette in the firelight. 

"Soon. Lord Elrond would be able to give you a better estimate."

Ori turned a little to look at Elrond, and so did Kíli. A faint smile flickered across the elf lord's face.

"At the earliest, less than two months." His words inspired a grin and an excited squeal from Ori, at which Kíli rolled his eyes, fond exasperation for his sister-by-marriage making him smile. Fíli's brow furrowed, though.

"At the earliest? Does that mean it might be later?"

Elrond nodded, his expression serious, but no longer sad. "It is not unheard of for an elf mother to postpone the birth of her child for a month or more under stressful situations. As I understand it, the process is not entirely under conscious control, and can be somewhat... inconvenient." Elrond's lips twisted upward on one side, his smile wry and ironic in a way that reminded Kíli that he had three children, and therefore may have had experience with this very thing. In fact...

"Did that happen to your twins?" Kíli asked curiously. Elrond glanced at him sidelong, laughter in his eyes.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

The elves that had been near the tables began to gather, and Elrond spread his hands a little in a helpless gesture. "My beloved Celebrian was very spirited. What she felt, she felt very strongly. The twins were our first, and it was... an unnerving experience." The elf lord's voice, smooth as a wide river in summer, rolled over the melody of his story, as though his audience were of less importance than the memory of his wife and children.

Elrond wove pictures with his words, describing the way his councilors fussed and hovered, how the whole Valley was in an uproar, and his own inability to think of anything else.

"Her time was very near, and I'm afraid I made her quite angry a few times, forbidding her to stray beyond our chambers without an escort." The elf smiled, and several of the robed elves nearest the fireplace exchanged knowing glances.

Elrond spoke of the anxiety and impatience he and his wife felt, waiting for their sons to be born. "Celebrian in particular was eager for the birth to be over and done. Carrying them had made her somewhat... less coordinated than usual." He glanced at Kíli, and the dwarf felt a foolish smile spread across his own face. Tauriel had never said so directly, but he knew it bothered her, and he tried hard not to let on how amusing he found her plight.

Elrond's tale continued. He described the day his wife had finally felt the first of the birth pains, and how so many had feared the birth would be too hard for her. How Celebrian herself had become so frightened, she had begun to cry. The distress of that moment seemed to resurface as Elrond spoke, fingers curling about an invisible hand.

"I hated to see her so frightened, but I could do nothing. Nature would take its course, and I could neither speed nor slow the birth - but she could. The birth pains slowed, then stopped, and my beloved looked to me for an explanation. I... told her what I have told you, and she decided it was my fault. Our twins were not born for another two weeks, which was also my fault. Don't ask me how."

The gathered elves expressed amusement at the conclusion of the elf lord's tale, and there was scattered applause. Kíli found he had a bit of trouble imagining Elrond in such a light - more or less in the position he found himself now: trying to navigate the unfamiliar troubles and complexities that came with an expectant wife. 

"Well, Kee," Fíli whispered pointedly, his voice only just audible to his brother amongst the din, "better not say anything to your lady elf, eh?" 

Kíli chuckled, shaking his shaggy head. "Not a word. Keep it under wraps, Ori." 

The dwarrowdam made a disappointed sound. "I'll tell her after, I guess." 

"Master Kíli." Elrond's distinct tone silenced the conversing elves momentarily, and the young dwarf turned to regard his host. "Perhaps... you might grace this hall with a tale of your own? I would know of your life in the Blue Mountains, if it does not trouble you to speak of it ." 

Kíli hesitated, and looked at his brother. Any tale he told, Fíli could tell better, save for a small handful of anecdotes from his coming of age journey, which he had accomplished alone. Even remembering that time made him shiver. Away from his family, away from his brother... the experience had been a frightening one. But one does not pass through fire without feeling the heat of it.

Fíli gave him a slow nod, smiling faintly in encouragement, and Kíli felt his confidence swell slightly. Elrond had not asked for an epic, or a story of battles and legends. He could do this. Casting about for an appropriate tale, he landed on the first time he had seen his uncle and his mother argue over something. He grinned at the memory.

"Among dwarves," he began, still smiling, "my brother and I are as close to twins as any have known. We're only seven years apart, and many of the elders in the Blue Mountains thought we were a blessing."

Fíli let out an amused snort, and Kíli worked hard to suppress a chuckle. Ori was smiling, too. She may not have known them, but she had grown up in Ered Luin as well, and had known their reputation.

"Those who knew us personally knew better, of course. Our mother and uncle had to work hard to keep us under control, especially during ceremonies.

"When I turned fifteen, Fíli and I were to be presented to our uncle's subjects as prospective heirs. It was the biggest hullabaloo I'd ever seen! Mam was constantly talking to people about food and guest lists and guards and decorations. I didn't even know I was part of it until the day before it happened."

Fíli grinned, eyes bright with memories. Ah, to be back in such times, where mischief and fun could ceaselessly occupy a young dwarf, not responsibility and grief and- that's when it hit Kíli. With Thorin dead... Fíli was the rightful heir to the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Fíli would be the one charged with unseating Dain, with leading those who had been loyal to their uncle. The young dwarf nearly cringed, stammering as he tried to continue his story. His mouth had gone dry, all thoughts of youthful antics fled. 

"And- and so..." He glanced at Fíli again, and he could tell his brother sensed he was preoccupied, could detect his worry easily as ever he had. 

"What's wrong?" the blond mouthed to him, but Kíli shrugged lightly, quickly recovering, and smilingly dispelled the concerned furrow beginning to crease Elrond's brow. Now was not the time to speak of such things.

"And so," he continued, more strongly this time, "when Mam had us dress up in matching robes and we each got a little ceremonial sword, I was just as pleased as a dwarrow could be. I mean, what fifteen-year-old wouldn't be excited to have his own sword?

"But then Uncle Thorin burst in. I wanted to show him my new sword. It was the coolest toy ever! But he looked at me like I'd smeared mud all over the oakenshield (which I hadn't yet, for the record - that happened later)." Kíli was gratified by a smattering of laughs at that, and grinned, relaxing further. He sprang to his feet and pointed accusingly at Fíli, knowing he wouldn't take it personally. "'You can't send them out there looking like this!' I didn't have any idea what Uncle was shouting about. I thought I looked downright heroic." Kíli spun, as though now he were on the other side of the conversation. He could see the elves watching him with interest. His impression of Thorin's voice wasn't as good as Fíli's, but it was what it was. Besides, he could do a better impression of their mother than his brother.

"'Why not? I think they look very fine.'" Kíli twisted again, now playing the part of Thorin. Back and forth through their argument he went, replaying it with only _slight_ embellishment.

"Fine? They look like a pair of dolls."

"Are you insulting my sons?"

"No. I'm insulting your sense of fashion. Look at them! I want to present prospective heirs, not playthings!"

"Fine!" Kíli's impression of Dís shouted. "Then you dress them, Brother." Kíli went on with his narrative, describing how Thorin had proceeded to fit the two dwarrows out in oversized pages' armor, equipped with very real, very sharp axes. Dís had been shocked to see the two of them paraded about like clanking, portable armories, and was convinced one or the other of her sons was going to behead someone. 

"Anyway, Thorin was banned from dressing us again, but we had a blast." Kíli winced slightly, remembering. "Well, at least we did until Fíli tried to throw his ax into a tree and ended up knocking me out." He grinned at his brother, who had clearly forgotten that portion of the incident. "Thankfully, Thorin got most of the blame, though Fíli still had a good hiding."

Fíli was laughing, though he looked a little self-conscious. "You wouldn't have gotten knocked out if you hadn't walked in front of me," he muttered, which only seemed to make the elves laugh even more. They were a merry lot, more so now than they had been, and even Elrond was smiling, seeming less tense than he had been since receiving the news of Thorin's demise.

Kíli grinned, but he felt the need to return to his wife. She was strong and could take care of herself, but he wanted to be close to her. Elrond's story had woken the thought in him that this was just as frightening for Tauriel as it was for him. Kíli stood and signed to his brother that he would see him in the morning. Fíli nodded, seeming to understand.

The halls were dim and quiet, but for once, this didn't seem to bother him. Kíli made his way to the guest room, where Tauriel seemed to be dozing on their shared bed. The dwarf changed into sleeping clothes and joined her, slipping an arm around her so his calloused hand rested on the side of her swollen belly.

It might have been ten minutes later, or an hour. It was hard to tell. He felt her shift, heard her voice, and roused himself with difficulty.

"Hm?"

"Your brother..." Tauriel sat up in bed a little, shifting as she so often did during the night now. It seemed no position on the mattress long gave her comfort. "He does not approve of me... of us." 

Kíli struggled to clear thick sleep from his mind, trying to form a coherent answer while his brain stubbornly resisted his demands. His wife's sleepless nights had been taking their toll on him. 

"What?" he mumbled. "Why d'you think that?" 

"What he said at dinner." Tauriel's voice was pensive, mildly sad. "I sensed his dislike. Or at least, his distaste." 

Kíli shook his head, gently drawing the elleth into his arms. "That's not true, love. He's just... well, you know him. He can be... blunt." The dwarf stroked her hair gently. It might've been his imagination, but the long, soft strands felt silkier than ever, like water between his fingers. "Anyway, why does it matter what my brother thinks?"

Tauriel was quiet for a long moment, as though composing her thoughts. Or perhaps she was enjoying the feeling of his fingers in her hair. When at last she spoke, her tone was subdued, her words so soft as to almost be missed in the ambient noise of the peaceful night.

"He is your kin. I want... to be accepted." There was a vulnerability about the elleth's words that touched Kíli deeply, and he strove to throw off the last of sleep's heavy influence.

"He'll come around. I know he will." Kíli leaned in to nuzzle her neck, right beneath her ear. He'd learned from considerable experience that she was incredibly ticklish, if one knew just the right spots to target. He was not disappointed. Tauriel squeaked, twitching in surprise, and when he began to plant soft, persistent kisses along her ear, she giggled helplessly and made a token protest Kíli knew she didn't mean. 

Swatting at him, Tauriel shot him a glare, the effect of which was completely ruined by her wide smile. "What's gotten into you?" 

He grinned into her hair. "Nothing." 

"You're trying to distract me." 

"Am not." 

"Yes you are!" she insisted, and twisted just enough to catch his lips with her own, which thoroughly distracted him. After several more breathless minutes of tickling and kissing, Tauriel seemed to relax completely, and rested against him so her head was tucked under Kíli's chin. He rested a hand on her ponderous belly and rubbed the taut skin through the soft fabric of her shift. The elleth hummed softly in appreciation, and sighed, her warm breath fanning across his neck like the ghost of a caress.

"Sleep, my precious one," Kíli murmured, feeling himself relax as well. "All will be well in the morning."


	23. Billa; Determination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billa finds new things to add to her list of least favorite things ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is a graphic and emotionally traumatic chapter that includes:  
> Death  
> Grief  
> Physical attacks  
> Burning  
> Stabbing  
> and a Nasty Cliffhanger
> 
> There will be a summary at the end of the chapter for those who feel they have read enough of Billa being tormented and want to skip the chapter.

Billa had quite forgotten what a great nuisance riding was. A pony was bad enough, a full-sized horse decidedly worse. And Gandalf pushed the poor beast on with little mercy, hooves flying over the turf with a noise like battle drums, as Billa was rattled and shaken for two days with only a handful of precious hours of sleep in between. Now her muscles ached, tense and jellied, as she put every ounce of her remaining strength into clinging to the horse and trying desperately not to be sick.

"He'll be alright, won't he? Thorin?"

Gandalf sighed behind her, and Billa could tell he was just as tired as she was. "Baggins, you've asked just short of five variations on this same question, by my reckoning. You'll have the same answer as before."

"You never really gave me an answer, Gandalf."

"Precisely."

Billa decided Wizards could be maddening at times. 

It seemed like it have been days, no,  _ weeks _ since they had started. Hour after monotonous, mind-numbing hour with nothing but the smell of horse sweat and the thunderous sound of hooves ringing in her ears. If she never heard or smelled anything of the sort ever again, she could die happy.

But even as her stomach twisted uncomfortably, clenching around the pitiful meal Gandalf had dared call "breakfast," the horse under them stumbled, lurching to the left and nearly unseating the halfling. Billa let out a whimper and closed her eyes. Behind her, Gandalf growled something in a language she didn't recognize and used the loose ends of the reins to lash to beast's hindquarters. As little fondness as she felt toward horses in general, Billa couldn't help but feel a little bad for the animal.

Not ten minutes on, their steed stumbled again, and this time, nearly fell. The hobbit could feel the great lungs heaving between her legs, and could see sticky yellow froth gathering at the corners of the horse's raw, panting mouth.

Little as she knew about horses, she was fairly certain that wasn't a good sign. "Uh, Gandalf? Are we going to stop soon? I think you're killing him."

"He'll last another hour or so."

"You're sure?" Billa glanced at the beast's face again, wondering idly if Gandalf went through a lot of horses.

"Miss Baggins." The Wizard was taking on that familiar, annoyed tone again. "Do you intend to question  _ every _ decision I make on this journey?"

Billa relented. "No. Just... worried, is all."

"Leave the worrying to me. There's not a thing you can do right now to help. With the possible exception of keeping quiet."

_ Bit harsh, _ Billa thought, but didn't speak again.

They continued for another half hour, maybe a little more, and Gandalf's mood soured as the horse's gait became increasingly unsteady. At length, he was forced to stop, and as he slid out of the saddle and lifted Billa down as well, the animal stood on trembling legs, head hanging between his knees, gasping and wheezing horribly.

Billa wobbled a few steps, then sat down in the grass, resisting the powerful urge to be sick and take a nap, in that order. Desperate to keep her mind off the condition of her mostly empty stomach, she watched Gandalf. The Wizard murmured quite, foreign words to the horse. The beast calmed under his gentle hands. Billa was surprised when Gandalf started to unbuckle the thick leather straps that held the heavy saddle on, and once that was removed, he also took off the headpiece... halter? Whatever it was. He took it off, buffing the stallion's damp neck with his long grey sleeve.

"I take it we're not riding any farther?" Billa couldn't help the hopeful note that crept into her voice.

"I will call another steed to bear us." The Wizard's voice was rough, though whether that was from irritation or a dry throat was hard to tell.

"Call another...?" The hobbit's question was cut short by a high-pitched noise, like the whistling of a kettle, but shriller, more drawn out. She started to her feet, momentarily unnerved, until she realized the source of the noise. She hadn't known Gandalf was capable of producing such a piercing sound. 

"Hang on." Bill placed her hands on her hips, frowning. "You expect me to believe you can just... whistle for another horse?" 

The old man looked unperturbed. "I've a good many horses in the wild, Billa Baggins, and all can answer my call from a league or more away."

A full minute of silence followed before she could find her tongue again. "A league or more?" Billa had loved maps for too long not to have a good grasp of what a league was, but she remembered the awe of first learning the true dimensions that belonged to the word. "Come now, Gandalf. I know horses have keen hearing, but that's ridiculous!" Gandalf seemed content to ignore her, and the hobbit silently berated him for being a doddering old fool. She might have said so, but the sound of hooves beating heavily against the ground drowned out the words that hadn't yet reached her lips.

Astounded, Billa watched as a gorgeous red stallion burst from the cover of the trees. There was only one problem. This horse already had a rider. A rider in brilliant white robes, and carrying a metal staff.

"Gandalf, at last! I was beginning to fear you'd lost your way." The Wizard's voice (for what else could he be but a Wizard?) was deep, commanding, and impressive. Billa ducked behind Gandalf, more on instinct than any real fear. This "trust no one" thing was becoming a habit. 

"You've been reckless, my friend," the figure in white chided, stopping just before the grey wizard, who seemed very surprised. As satisfying as it might have otherwise been to see Gandalf caught off guard, Billa couldn't derive any enjoyment from it just now. Something felt... off. 

"My lord Saruman, I did not look to see you- " 

"Of course you didn't. Now we must waste no time. You and I both know what's at stake. The halfling... she has it, does she not?"

Gandalf's chagrined expression took on a grave quality, but Billa wondered what "it" was that Saruman thought she had. She was carrying nothing. Not even food.

"I fear she may be," admitted Gandalf solemnly. "I haven't had the chance to test it, yet I feel the danger of it in my bones."

Saruman's horse tossed his head uneasily, and the White Wizard looked down at the hobbit. There was something different in his gaze. Fear? Tension? Billa couldn't tell.

"I'll take her ahead. Catch up when your steed reaches you." Saruman's voice was one of a man who expected to be obeyed, but Gandalf hesitated.

"I gave my word that I would deliver her safely to Lord Elrond. I can't let her out of my sight in good conscience."

"And you honestly think she would be safer with  _ you _ _?_ " Saruman scoffed, jerking his horse's head up when the beast nosed toward a lush patch of grass. 

"I gave my word." 

"Your promise to Oakenshield was well-meant, I'm sure, but I will not allow you to jeopardize the safety of all Middle-earth with any more of your blundering." Billa shivered, realizing quite suddenly she was caught up in something far bigger than even Gandalf's ominous words had suggested. But to go with this strange Wizard... alone? That thought frightened her even more. 

"Saruman, how do you know all this?" Skepticism was beginning to creep into Gandalf's voice and posture. "Who told you Billa Baggins had a ring of power?" 

"I did not become head of the White Council through being a fool." The White Wizard's face darkened with contempt. " _ I _ would have recognized it immediately for what it was. We are fortunate I arrived in time." 

Gandalf's fist tightened around the twisted wooden grip of his staff, and Billa swallowed anxiously. A momentary pause flowed between them. Like the air before a storm, the hobbit could almost feel the heavy portent of the two Wizards' locked, calculating gazes. 

"Stand aside, Mithrandir." Saruman urged his horse in a narrow arc, attempting to move around behind them. Billa clung to Gandalf's rough, dirty robes, rising terror turning her blood to ice. 

"Gandalf,  _ please _ ," she begged softly. "Don't let him take me."

She didn't know what it was about Saruman that frightened her so, but she  _ was _ frightened. Her thoughts turned to her unborn child, and the halfling shuddered. When Gandalf spoke, his voice was deceptively mild.

"If the Ring were all that was at stake, it would be a different matter. I promised a dear friend that I would keep his wife safe. I cannot entrust that burden to another in good conscience." Billa sensed that this was a test, somehow. As though the words might miraculously reveal... something. Saruman's intent? That already seemed very clear to her. The hobbit disliked his manner. It reminded her powerfully of her cousin Lobelia. The comparison nearly made her laugh, though tension and fear prevented the sound from escaping her lips.

Saruman let out a snort, his keen eyes fixed on Gandalf's weathered face as the Grey Wizard pivoted, staying carefully between the hobbit and the champing, fidgety horse. "This is no time for sentiment. I'll only say this once more. Give me the halfling."

A faint glance from Gandalf confirmed everything she'd suspected, and more. It meant  _ Keep behind me _ and bore tones of a panic she'd never before seen on the Wizard's seamed face. He was trying to buy time now. Time for what?

"Saruman, is it truly so dangerous? If it is, surely we shouldn't separate."

"Gandalf, you are an embarrassment, and severely out of your depth." Saruman's attacks were taking on a more personal nature, frustration and hints of deep rage. Like a wolf being kept from a meal, caged in the presence of a haunch of lamb. "Stand aside, or you leave me no choice but to take the halfling by force."

There was a moment of silence as the two Wizards seemed to measure one another, determining who would attack first. At least, that was Billa's impression. They were like bulls, eyeing one another over the fence. Only there was no fence to stop them. Then, with a triumphant bugle, a horse crashed out of the undergrowth, causing Saruman's steed to shy and snort in surprise.

The dappled grey mare pranced to a stop beside Gandalf. Billa had time to notice the mare wore no saddle, but that was all. Everything else dissolved into a blur of motion as Gandalf stooped and all but threw her onto the horse's back. The hobbit clutched at the mare's mane.

Saruman shouted something in another language - a language Billa didn't recognize. Gandalf's weight settled behind her. The mare leapt forward. For a second, Billa dared to hope they would make it. Then, with a roar of sound, heat, and light, something heavy hit Gandalf from behind. His chest collided with her back, and Billa smelled burning hair, felt the Wizard shudder, but the horse under them stretched herself to her fullest, running as swiftly as a spring flood. Billa tried to turn, but she could see very little through the haze of smoke that followed them. 

"Don't look back." Gandalf's voice was little more than a wheeze, and Billa feared he might be hurt. The horse leapt on, and the hobbit clung to its neck, the world ahead blurring into colors of dusk, the wind cold in her face. An hour and more they went on in thundering silence, as darkness closed around them, and with it an icy misting of rain that wasn't quite heavy enough to be considered a shower. They'd reached a stand of pines, and as the horse slowed to pass between them, Billa felt sudden emptiness at her back. She turned. In slow stages, she saw Gandalf crumpling, sliding from the horse's back. Only then, amidst this eternal instant, did she notice the mare's hindquarters were no longer grey, but red.

The wizard dropped from the horse's back like a half-empty sack of flour, hitting the ground below on his side. In the darkness, he nearly disappeared, but Billa kept her eyes fixed on the place, dimly aware of a shrill, terrified scream. Her throat hurt. She leapt from the mare's back, no longer fearing what harm might befall her.

Fili would have been proud. She hit the ground, tucked her head down and rolled, so she barely felt the impact at all. Training and instinct were all that kept her going as she sprang to her feet and rushed back to the Wizard's crumpled form.

Gandalf lay on his stomach, his face half hidden in last year's leaves and fallen pine needles. A horrible, gaping wound stretched across half of his back, the edges still smoking slightly. Beneath the blood and shredded muscle, the hobbit could see the white gleam of bone. The sight might have made her sick, if she hadn't been so focused on her old friend. Gandalf didn't seem to be breathing. Her chest felt tight, her throat sore, and as she fell to her knees beside the old man, the hobbit hit the ground so hard her teeth rattled.

"Gandalf! Oh, spirits, please, Gandalf, stay awake!"

The old man shuddered, turning over slightly, and Billa was horrified to see the ground was already damp with blood, despite the light rain's feeble attempts to wash it away. 

"Billa." Gandalf's voice was little more than a faint cough, and the Wizard's blue eyes seemed somehow dim. Billa hoped it was just a trick of the failing light. 

"Why didn't you say something?!" she scolded, torn between deep pity and anger. "I could've..." She trailed off, ignoring the cold trickle of rain that had defeated her torn and ragged coat as she debated whether or not she'd cause him too much pain trying to stanch the flow of blood. 

"Billa," Gandalf said again, rallying slightly, though his voice was still a weak, raspy shadow of its normal self. "You should've... stayed on the horse."

Billa thought she knew what the old man meant, but the very thought filled her with revulsion. With renewed determination, she pulled her coat off and, as gently as she could, pressed it to the wound. She could see now, inspecting the ragged wound more closely, that the burn had not apparently sealed the Wizard's injury as a natural fire would have.

"Hold still and be quiet," whispered Billa, her throat too tight to manage a respectable volume. "I'll do what I can, but confusticate it all, Gandalf, you should have  _ said _ something. I could have stopped this bleeding an hour ago."

The Wizard lifted a hand and pushed Billa's hand away, but the motion was frighteningly weak, and barely moved her arm at all.

"Go. Flee. Run, you fool hobbit. Run." Gandalf's body tensed, and she could see the loose ends of severed muscle in his back twitch as his shoulders and jaw clenched, then began to shudder. Billa's eyes filled with tears. She pulled Gandalf's head into her lap and held him as best she could. She couldn't let him hurt himself.

"I won't leave you, Gandalf. I've got to stay. Elrond would never forgive me if I let you bleed to death, now would he?" She tried to smile, but it was hardly more than a twitch of her lips. Even as the words faded, the truth of them struck her to the core. She couldn't believe Gandalf was dying -  _ wouldn't _ believe it. "Just hold still. I've got you. You'll be alright. You have to be alright."

"This is... more important than me, Billa." Gandalf struggled for speech, and Billa was struck by the impression he was...  drowning , somehow. "You must get away, keep it from him."

"I don't  _ have _ the bloody ring, Gandalf!" she said, her words more than half sob. At a plaintive look from the wizard, she lowered her voice. "I gave it to Thorin. He has it."

Gandalf's face pinched with deep concern. Or pain. It was hard to tell. " _ Thorin _ has the Ring?"

Billa nodded. "I gave it to him before we left, to prove it wasn't... controlling me."

"Well, that's that, then." Gandalf coughed violently, shuddering in her arms. He sucked in a breath, and Billa knew he was rallying every last ounce of his effort to give her these words. She wanted to tell him not to speak, to save his strength, but she doubted he would have listened to her anyway. "I have a favor to ask, my dear hobbit."

"Anything, Gandalf." Billa worked hard not to cry. He mustn't see her cry.

"Take this, when I'm gone." Trembling, he raised a hand weakly, and as his heavy, rain-damp sleeve slid down his arm, Billa caught in the waning light the gleam of a ruby. "Hide it. Don't let Saruman find it."

"What's that?"

"Narya, one of the elven rings. You must take it, Billa."

"Gandalf, don't talk like that." Billa's voice had become a croak. This was overwhelming to say the least. "You're going to be alright. You're a  _ Wizard _ , for heaven's sake. You can't just..."  _ die _ . That was the implied word, though Billa couldn't bring herself to voice it. "Can't just... leave me," she said instead.

"I'm afraid," Gandalf breathed, his hand falling limply back to his side, "this is beyond my power." She could  _ feel _ him fading, and it terrified her. Tears overflowed and splashed onto the old man's withered cheek. His breathing grew ever fainter, ever shallower. Not even the sound of approaching hooves could disturb her.

For a moment, it seemed as though Gandalf's strength started to return. His eyes became unnaturally bright, almost glowing in the last feeble vestiges daylight. When the red stallion and his ghostly white rider were barely more than shadows shifting between the trees, the old Wizard uttered a single word. It flowed like water from his tongue, and hung in the air like the evening star. Saruman let out a cry of pain, and his horse squealed in protest.

Gandalf's body shuddered once more, and as his breath left him, so did the light in his eyes. He went limp, his head suddenly heavier, somehow, against Billa's legs.

The hobbit stared down at him, unable to comprehend it, unable to believe it. Gandalf, gone. Gandalf, slain by a member of his own order. Gandalf... gone.

Her hands shook as she slid the ring off of the gnarled hand, noting that the Wizard's fingers were already growing cold. She stuffed the ring into her vest pocket and stood, drawing a knife from her belt. A knife that Niku had insisted she carry, just in case. A knife that would taste the blood of a murderer. Billa's vision was blurred with tears, but she saw a smear of white emerge from the trees, and bared her teeth savagely. Saruman would  _ pay _ _._

The horse pulled up swiftly, and the white-robed figure slid from the saddle, the pale orb at the head of his staff glowing like a tiny moon in the twilight. He'd scarcely set foot on the ground when Billa's blade bit into him, a wild stab that amongst the billowing bulk of Saruman's robe, couldn't be sure of a target. All the hobbit knew was that she'd found yielding flesh, that she'd done  _ some _ damage.

She withdrew the blade for another strike, but it was too late. Something like a waterless wave swept the hobbit back, and she hit the ground hard.

"Little rat!" the Wizard hissed, advancing on her. "Pray you won't live to regret it."

His image swam above her, huge as the sky, but even so, she could see a dark stain spreading down the side of his robe, the fingers of his left hand clutching its source.

"Murderer," she spat, struggling against the effects of his magic. "Pray I don't have another chance at you." 

The force pressing her into the ground increased sharply, and she felt herself sink an inch or two into the loam. As Saruman stooped to wrest the knife from her, she saw a splattered trail of blood across his right sleeve as well, and a deep gash in the red stallion's right flank. That, she concluded, had been Gandalf's last strike, and she hoped viciously that it pained him greatly.

The knife left her fingers, the invisible weight eased slightly. Saruman turned away. It took a moment, but the sound of tearing fabric penetrated the fog in her mind, and the halfling let out a strangled protest, struggling to lift her head. She saw the White Wizard leaning over the motionless form of Gandalf, tearing the grey robes apart and running his hands roughly over the old body. Billa's first thought, as ridiculous as it might have been, was that Gandalf was too skinny, and needed to eat more. The next swept everything else away, and filled her with a hot, rushing anger. Her exhaustion seemed to have no bearing on what she had to do next. Struggling to her feet, Billa staggered toward Saruman, and fell against his leg, sinking her teeth deep into the Wizard's thigh. She could feel the thick cloth clogging her mouth, but also the soft flesh beneath and the hot, coppery blood welling to the surface.

The Wizard let out an unearthly sound. Blows rained down on her head, back and shoulders, and after the first two or three, she let go, staggering back again. Or that was her intent, anyway. The invisible restraint disappeared abruptly and she fell, unprepared for the lightness of her own body. A second later, the end of a long metal staff slammed into her shoulder.

"Wait your turn," hissed the Wizard, "or you'll outlive your usefulness before I've made use of you." 

Stars popped in front of her eyes, and she watched (in as much as she could) as Saruman released the staff and turned back to his nearly-naked compatriot. She could feel that the staff hadn't broken her skin, hadn't impaled her, but the pressure remained, pinning her to the ground and threatening to shove the bones out of place.

"H-how?" she wheezed, eyes watering. Anything-  _ anything _ to keep him away from Gandalf. "How did you know?"

"I have my ways. Oakenshield is not as stealthy as he seems to think." Saruman sounded almost pleased, almost smug, but there was a liberal dose of anger and pain in his tone as well. 

"But it doesn't make sense. None of us would betray him." Billa was beginning to forget why it was so important to keep him talking, the pain radiating from her shoulder seeming to blot out everything else. 

"None of you, maybe. But there are others. A dwarf here and there. A human with an innocent face." A pause and a soft curse followed, and Billa could only assume that he had discovered that Gandalf wore no ring, and carried none either.

Saruman turned swiftly, grasping his staff and freeing her as he bent to scoop her up, throwing her onto his horse's back. She wondered, briefly, why he was in such a hurry. Saruman mounted behind her, and she did her best to kick him in the groin, but he seemed ready for the attack this time, and dealt her a blow over the head with the long handle of his staff.

Billa slumped, dazed, and in the moment before the red stallion leapt forward, she found herself looking down at Gandalf's ruined body, now sprawled limply among the rags of his familiar old robe.

_ Of course. He doesn't want to be found near the body of his victim, when he's obviously the only one that could have killed him. _

Then the horse was moving, and the horn of the saddle drove cruelly into Billa's stomach, reminding her of the child she fought to protect. Tensing, she turned as well as she could and struck out with her large, hairy feet, determined to inflict as much damage as she could before she passed into whatever afterlife waited for her. If he was going to kill her unborn baby, that life would be dearly won.

"Hold still," snarled the Wizard, and immediately, the invisible water feeling returned, driving her down against the saddle-horn again. The horse ran, seeming to need no direction, for Saruman made no effort to steer him. Instead, he used his bloodied free hand to feel through Billa's clothing, and she could only guess he was searching for the ring. Gollum's ring. Her ring. The thought made her even angrier, and she struggled to free herself from his evil magic.

Saruman groped wildly, and Billa realized with a shudder he wouldn't be altogether disappointed in his search if she didn't act quickly. She struggled again, kicking out at him in a bid to draw his attention from searching her enough to get at the ring undetected. His efforts went to restraining her, as she'd hoped, and she was able to swiftly retrieve the ruby and gold ring from her vest pocket. After a moment, she let her arms fall to her sides, as if in surrender, and as Saruman returned to hunting through her clothing, she opened her hand. The ring went bouncing off into the night without a sound, and Billa relaxed a little. At least he wouldn't have it; Gandalf's mind would have been eased to know. She only hoped some orc wouldn't happen upon it by chance. 

It wasn't long before the Wizard swore, long and colorfully, though not in a language Billa understood. Then he grabbed her about the throat and shook her furiously.

"Where is it?" he demanded, his cheeks nearly scarlet with rage. "Where is the Ring?" Billa summoned her courage, and spat directly in Saruman mad, gleaming eyes.

The Wizard snarled in disgust, backhanding Billa hard across the face before swiping at his eye. The hobbit saw stars, but his grip on her neck kept her firmly in the saddle. "Where is it, she-rat?!" he demanded again. "I'll rip you apart if I must." 

Billa spoke up, her voice surprisingly steady, though breathless. "If I had it, don't you think I'd have used it to escape by now?" 

Saruman hesitated a moment, probably recalling what he knew of ring-lore, and in particular the magical properties of the one he sought. "Then who has it? I warn you, you haven't yet felt pain!"

Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and laughed in his face.

_An angry enemy is dangerous, but a calm enemy is more so. Anger make us stupid._

She couldn't remember which of the dwarves had said it, but it seemed to hold true, even for Saruman. The Wizard shook her again, and Billa felt the muscles of her abdomen clench. She recalled the lessons her mother had given her about bearing little ones, and smiled grimly. Childbearing was as much a part of hobbit lore as cooking. For now, her little one was safe. Sturdy as the earth itself, and fierce as a dragon in a pinch.

Saruman drew her close to his face again, demanding to know who had the ring, and Billa slammed her knee into the Wizard's gut. The white-haired man doubled over, wheezing. This, it seemed, was the final straw. He straightened, drawing a knife -  _ her _ knife - from his belt.

"Tell me," he hissed, "or add your blood to his."

Avoiding death was impossible, she knew, in the long-run. But as she stared fearfully at the knife, gleaming white in the light of the Wizard's staff, she found within herself a desire not to die just yet. 

"I dropped it..." she said, and that wasn't exactly a lie. Different ring, of course, than the one he wanted. "Dropped it on the way. Didn't tell Gandalf." The further embellishment  _ was _ a falsehood, however, and she prayed it sounded convincing. With her heart thudding in her throat so heavily she felt sure he could hear it, she watched the knife and waited.

The knife didn't move. One second. Two. Three. It remained poised in the air as Saruman processed the implications of her words. Then rage filled his expression, and Billa felt the last spark of hope flicker, dying in her chest.

"Fool," he hissed. "If you knew...." Words seemed to fail him. Instead, he plunged the knife into her chest. She felt the blade scrape against bone, and screamed as agony flared along every nerve. Then he lifted the knife and stabbed her again, this time burying the knife in the rounded muscle of her right shoulder. Billa convulsed, her entire body spasming as pain raced through her like fire. The knife rose, gleaming red in the unearthly white light of Saruman's staff, and fell again, disappearing to the hilt in her belly.

Billa writhed, the world flickering black then white before her eyes.

"Crawl under a bush and die like the rat you are," snarled the Wizard, and threw her out into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Saruman finds Gandalf and Billa, and tries to persuade Gandalf to give up the halfling willingly. When Gandalf refuses, Saruman loses his temper. Gandalf and Billa flee, but the Wizard is mortally wounded, and eventually they are forced to stop. Before their foe catches up with them, Gandalf makes Billa promise to keep his ring, Narya, safe. None of the rings of power can fall to Saruman.  
> Gandalf dies, and Billa, unable to outrun their attacker, attempts to avenge him. Saruman is injured, but undeterred. He searches for the One Ring, then for Gandalf's elven ring, and finds neither. Infuriated by his failure to find either of the rings and unable to rest the truth from Billa, he stabs her multiple times and throws her off his horse, leaving her for dead.


	24. Thorin; Hidden Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin and company reach Rivendell, leave Rivendell, and come to some conclusions, not all of which are correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, this chapter is a BEAST. It's over 12000 words long, and if you don't have time to read it right now, that's okay. Wait until work is done, and no one will give you weird looks for crying at your desk. 
> 
> Second, this chapter is emotionally traumatic, even though there's no violence in it. Please be aware before you start that you may require tissues and hot tea before you're done. 
> 
> More notes at the end.

There was little left of his world. Kin, dead or scattered. Home, stolen. Wealth, appropriated. And even if it hadn't been, it was next to meaningless. Now his One was gone, and his world had narrowed to the miles that separated them, and the jarring, throbbing ache that flashed through his body with each step.

Thorin felt like an overused dishrag. Wrung out, worn through, and still pressed into service on the toughest, most unyielding messes. He forced his eyes open. One more step. One more step. Just one more step. As long as he didn't think any further than the next step, he could keep going.

"Thorin. We need to rest. You need rest. We can't keep going like this." Balin sounded half pleading. He was exhausted. They were all exhausted. But Thorin couldn't bring himself to stop when they were so close. So close.

"Another hour. Give me one more hour." This particular exchange had happened more than he wanted to admit, but Thorin was determined they reached Rivendell no later than they had to. Each passing day, the weight upon his mind increased. It had been a week and two days, and still Gandalf had not returned. Not that the Wizard was particularly known for his reliability. For all Thorin knew, he might've reached Rivendell and then been called away on more "important" business. More than the elapsed time, though, there persisted a  _ feeling _ in the pit of his stomach. Lending it any credence seemed foolish; he had no evidence to support it. All the same, he didn't like it, and it had set in him a subdued panic, an insistent voice urging him at all times to hurry. 

The hour passed in exhausted, plodding silence, a blur of grass and stones and trees that all looked the same. The group sheltered in a shallow valley, shaded by pines and dark, frowning cliffsides. It seemed a secluded enough spot to rest awhile. Thorin settled onto a flat stone, hunching over his knees in a manner meant to block out the rest of the world. The others finally began to chatter quietly, sharing what meager rations remained and laying out blankets. Glóin and Gimli made a good deal of noise with the spades, leveling out a spot for their "bed," much to the annoyance of the others, who thought little of leaving such obvious signs of passage. 

"You'll have to fill it in, you will," Dori pointed out. "Waste of time." Other little quarrels broke out among the rest, tired, hungry, and fractious as they were. Morale was sinking steadily beneath the journey's rigors. Thorin sensed more than saw Dwalin sit next to him, a mild hiss revealing the hulking dwarf's discomfort. The long miles were harder on him than anyone, but he wouldn't complain - not if his leg dropped off altogether. 

"I've driven us too hard," Thorin admitted in an undertone, turning his head slightly where it rested on his forearms.

Silence passed between them for a moment or two. Then Dwalin shifted slightly. "Aye."

Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin could see the general shape of Dwalin's outline; the weary droop of the nearer, muscular shoulder, his tangled beard, one leg stretched out before him. Probably the injured one. Everything about him spoke of such exhaustion, it was a wonder he was even still functioning.

"I... can't do otherwise," Thorin muttered, and there was a note of apology in the words. Another moment of silence, and Dwalin's beard bobbed as he nodded.

"Aye," he agreed again. Thorin felt a surge of gratitude for his old comrade in arms. Dwalin never lied, never minced words. He never softened the truth to make it easier for anyone else. Out of all his followers, Dwalin was perhaps the most trustworthy, and he very much appreciate it.

"Raining again," Dori muttered nearby. "Felt a drop." 

"Ah," Bofur said, chuckling as he adjusted the ear flaps of his hat. "That's why ah brought this." 

"Don't rub it in." 

Thorin felt a cold drop glance off his hand. Ordinarily, being rained on wouldn't have bothered him, but with the group's spirits already so low, being cold and wet on top of everything else seemed a final straw of sorts. 

"Move further in," Thorin said, standing up suddenly. 

"Wha-?" Glóin asked, spade still in hand over the nicely evened patch of ground. "But we just... ach. Alright, then." The others had already begun dragging their supplies and bedding further in, where the cliffs came closer together and the pines gathered more thickly. It would be drier, if not completely out of the rain.

With some grumbling, Gimli and Glóin started the process of digging out beds again, and Nikû settled to starting a fire. Thorin considered forbidding a fire, as it would give away their position, but thought better of it. A hot meal - or snack, as the case was with such limited supplies - would do them more good than an attack would do them harm at this point.

"Hey, Dori. Look at this." Bofur was pointing at a small, dark rock near the base of the south-facing cliff. The grey-haired dwarf rolled his eyes.

"What is it  _ now? _ "

"Blood. I t'ink it is, anyhow."

Others murmured in interest. Balin joined Dori and Bofur, and though the others didn't move that direction, it was clear they were all listening. Thorin frowned slightly, and followed Balin. He felt a bit like a foolish dwarrow, going to gawk at some frivolous marvel. The idea of there being something injured nearby filled him with dread, though. It meant there was someone or something dangerous in the area.

The rock Bofur was pointing at was smeared with dark, semi-dry blood, and so was the cliff wall behind it. There was enough blood that the creature was obviously of a fair size. Or dead.

"Any tracks?" he asked, and Bofur shot him a nervous look.

"If there were, th' rain's washed 'em all away."

"Whatever it was probably left the valley," reasoned Dori soothingly. "Injured things don't like to be trapped."

"How d'ya know that?" Glóin asked curiously. 

"I pay attention." Dori's tone betrayed some amount of annoyance, as though he didn't appreciate his obvious expertise being questioned. Thorin shivered slightly, trying to crush any ridiculous leaps of logic his mind was making. 

"Probably an animal," he said quietly. "Could've fallen, or been cornered in here and killed. Dragged off somewhere." 

"Don't much like the thought of that," Balin murmured, looking uneasy. Thorin's brows knit, and he turned sharply from the blood-stained stones. 

"Glóin, Gimli, scout around the cliffs; see if you find anything." 

"I'll go," Dwalin volunteered, easing himself up again. "They'll miss somethin', likely as not." 

"No." Thorin shook his head firmly. "Stay. I need you here ." 

Dwalin looked less than pleased, but grunted and sat down again. Thorin glanced at the ginger dwarf and his son. Glóin nodded, gripping his shovel firmly, but Gimli looked uncertain. Like he might protest. They couldn't afford dissent, not now, and Thorin headed off the youngster's worries.

"If you find any large tracks farther in, let us know. If not, then we can stay the night here."  _ And mount a guard, for good measure. _

Not for the first time, Thorin cursed the wretched Wizard and his abysmal timing.

Glóin and Gimli found little of note. No tracks, no hoofprints, and nothing out of the ordinary. Some of the tension eased from Thorin's face at their report, but a faint ripple of trouble continued to disturb the waters of his calm, even as the group huddled together against the worsening rain, warmed themselves around the sputtering fire, and exchanged a tale or two. Nikû spoke of the state of Ered Luin in Thorin's absence, and how she felt certain all were staunchly loyal and would rather die than serve a usurper. 

"For the longest time, we didn't know what had become of Your Majesty," she offered, inclining her head slightly. "But the people bear nothing in their hearts for you but respect and love, and continued so long after many had given up hope of your success. It is thanks to you, my King, that we have any place at all to call home." Thorin nodded once, but felt no compulsion to comment. 

_ Will they feel the same when they learn I've pledged myself to a halfling? _ That seemed to have been his primary offense, anyway. The one that had turned Dain so firmly against him. How did he know his subjects in the Blue Mountains would not respond as Dain and his kin had?

It was useless, though, to dwell on such thoughts. Either it would happen, or it wouldn't, and nothing he could do would change that. Well, nothing other than repudiating Billa, and he wouldn't do that, not even at the cost of his kingdom.

The night was both too long and too short, and the morning dawned cold and wet around them. In short order, they were on their way again. Though Thorin hadn't started out at the same punishing pace he'd used the day before, as had happened that day and each day before that since the Wizard's departure, the dwarf's steps sped until he was traveling at a weary, but steady jog. The others kept up, though more out of duty than desire, he thought. The hours and days blurred behind them, as though a giant hand were sweeping away the signs of their passage, even down to their own memories.

When at last the routine was interrupted, Thorin was so surprised he almost didn't recognize that the elf before him wore the grey and blue of the Hidden Valley, not the green and brown of the Woodland Realm.

"State your name and business, Dwarf," called the elf, who stood on a rocky shelf above their nearly-invisible path. "Why come you to our valley?"

Thorin hesitated a moment, accustomed as he'd grown to providing false names. This close to Rivendell, though, the danger was past, and courtesy valued over secrecy. "Thorin, son of Thrain. I believe you may be expecting me." 

The guard frowned, studying the dwarves intently. "Thorin... Oakenshield?" Thorin bowed slightly, wondering if the guard was having him on in some tactless elven jest. 

"I assumed you had been told I'd be coming. Gandalf must have informed your Lord Elrond some days ago."

The elf's eyebrows lifted in a mildly disbelieving expression that reminded Thorin unpleasantly of Thranduil.

"Mithrandir hasn't been here for several months," said the elf softly. He said something else, probably very diplomatic and wishy-washy, but Thorin wasn't paying attention.

"Nevermind," he snapped irritably, more than a little worried. Gandalf was sneaky, though. It was possible he'd snuck in without this guard (or any of the others) knowing about it. The Wizard's secrecy was a real pain in the neck at times. "Just never you mind about it. Where's Elrond? I need to see him."

"Lord Elrond is... indisposed."

Before Thorin could say something nasty about elves in general, Balin broke in, possibly because he knew Thorin's temper far too well.

"Could you kindly escort us the rest of the way? We are very tired, and in desperate need of a hot meal and a good night's rest."

The elf regarded them for a moment longer, but nodded and jumped lightly down to the path. They were guided the remainder of the distance, some three or four miles into the heart of the Valley and to the main entrance of the Homely House, where a snooty-looking elf was waiting for them. He looked unnerved, but that didn't put Thorin off.

"Take me to Gandalf," he said shortly, thinking he owed the Wizard a word or two about not coming back for them.

The elf's eyebrows rose, and Thorin could taste bile. If he never saw another elf for the rest of his life....

"Gandalf the Grey hasn't been seen here for many months - though if you have word of his whereabouts, it would be most welcome. My lord Elrond has need of his council."

Thorin ground his teeth around a lurid curse that made the elf blanch.

"If you don't tell me where that idiot Wizard is, I'll personally ensure you never walk again. He should have been here days ago. He was riding here with all speed, and he had a halfling with him - one of the Shirefolk. Billa Baggins."

The elf's eyes widened in shock. "Baggins? Isn't she dead?"

Thorin swayed as though under a physical weight.

Dead?  _ Dead? _ Another elf approached, and Thorin barely recognized Elrond's presence. The elf lord let out a cry that was half surprise, half joy.

"Thorin Oakenshield! You're alive!"

The dwarf didn't answer. He couldn't. His world was caving in, burying him alive in the silence of his internal screams. At last, he managed to speak.

"Where's Gandalf? He... and Billa...."

Elrond hesitated, then shook his dark head. "I've not heard from Gandalf for many weeks."

Thorin didn't move, but inwardly, he reeled. His lungs wouldn't work.

_ Where is Billa? _

Balin was speaking. None of them seemed to understand.

_ Where is my One? _

Dori shot him a worried look. Glóin said something very loudly. None of it mattered. Billa was gone, and he didn't know where.

They were moving again after that, and under Balin and Dwalin's direction, Thorin plodded up the stairs, numb and blind to everything around him as his insides dissolved into cold, feathery ashes.

It was Elrond's voice that finally drew Thorin out of himself again, or more specifically, something Elrond was saying. "...seems Saruman was mistaken, then. Odd. Very odd." Or maybe it was because he'd lowered his voice considerably, as though he were confiding in those around him. "He claimed with all certainty your company- and most specifically you and Billa- had met your end some months ago. My heart is greatly comforted to learn otherwise." The elf lord gave a smile so genuine and warm, even Thorin couldn't bring himself to doubt the truth of it. 

"My nephews?" he said finally, tone flat and cold as a frozen lake. "What of them?" It seemed too much to hope that Fíli had survived, vulnerable as he'd been, left behind in Laketown. All the same, Thorin couldn't bring himself to give Dis' eldest up for lost.

"Both here and safe." Elrond seemed inordinately relieved at being able to say that. Turning to one of his underlings, the elf issued quiet orders - or maybe they just seemed quiet to Thorin. Through the rush of blood in his ears, it was hard to concentrate on anything.

As usual, the insufferable elf seemed to know what Thorin needed to hear. "If Gandalf departed from his planned course, he must have had a good reason. I will send scouts in every direction. If our friend Billa can be found, she will be."

Thorin nodded in mute gratitude, overwhelmed and exhausted. He'd pushed himself beyond the breaking point, and the possibility that Billa was dead wasn't something he could entertain again. Not now. Not where Gandalf was concerned. To Thorin's knowledge, the Wizard was as close as it came to invincible. It wouldn't have surprised him if he had some other scheme up his sleeve - something to do with the accursed ring he might've thought was still in Billa's possession. 

The ring that had changed her, as the Arkenstone had changed him. It seemed slower to act on its bearer, or maybe Billa was just that much stronger. Still, she had given it to him. Thorin felt a little awed by the thought. She had  _ given _ it to him. Though... keeping it seemed folly, after seeing what it had done to Billa.

"If you'll come this way, I have rooms ready for you. Food will be delivered to you as soon as it's ready." Elrond was already walking, and the others were following. Dwalin stood on his left, Balin on his right. Both were looking at him with concern.

"She'll be fine." If Thorin's non sequitur surprised them, neither showed it. Together, they brought up the rear of the straggling, stumbling group.

They had barely reached the hall at the head of the stairs when a pair of figures, sprinting for all they were worth, came into view. Wordless cries of joy tore from them as first Kíli, then Fíli collided with Glóin, knocking him over. Others were greeted with equal exuberance as well, and when the boys reached Thorin, there were tears on both their faces.

"Uncle!" shouted Fíli, and embraced Thorin so tightly, stars popped into existence before his eyes. Kíli stood before him, fists clenched, shoulders shaking.

"You were dead," he croaked. Thorin pounded Fíli's back until the blond released him, and gasped for air, his head swimming.

"Not by half," he growled breathlessly.

"How?" Kíli's eyes were glistening, his relief as palpable as the embrace Fili had only reluctantly broken. "I mean, Saruman said-. He gave us no hope you'd survived. Spoke of your death like it was a certainty."

"Seems Wizards are more fallible than they let on," Thorin murmured. It wasn't an answer, not really. But he didn't feel like dredging the matter with Alfrid up again.

He was saved, in the end, by Lord Elrond. "Give your uncle some time. He will tell you all in due course, but for now, basic necessities must be seen to." The elf-lord turned to the perturbed-looking elf who had greeted them, bidding him lead the group to their lodgings as he strode purposefully away.

Thorin felt as though he were in a daze, detached from his own body, as he drifted along with the rest to the guest rooms. He was shown into a lavish suite that felt somehow _too_ opulent after the conditions he'd faced these past few months. Fíli and Kíli, despite Elrond's admonishment, chattered nonstop, while Thorin nodded and made the occasional acquiescent noise. Despite his relief to find his nephews alive and well, he felt he couldn't allow himself to rest yet - not until he'd found Billa. Not until he knew she was safe.

His nephews, for their part, made themselves useful, heating water for a bath, fluffing the bed pillows, and scrounging together clothes that had been made for Kíli by some of Elrond's tailors. Thorin blinked at the two owlishly while they rushed about, leaning against the wall so he wouldn't risk falling over.

Balin peeked his head in the door, his gaze traveling between the two busy dwarrows and Thorin. "Going to be alright, laddie?" he said softly, deep concern in every line of his face. Poor Balin. He really  _ was _ too old for all this.

"I'll be fine," said Thorin, as brusquely as he could manage. When Balin gave him a disbelieving look, the dwarf king sighed. "I have to be, Balin. She's still out there."

The boys were still chattering, as much to each other as to him, and they didn't seem to notice when Balin nodded slowly.

"I understand, lad. Just... try to get some rest. We'll need it, if we're going to look for her."

Fíli paused, looking at his uncle with a frown. "What, Billa? You mean she wasn't with you? Didn't you find her?"

Thorin grunted. He didn't want to explain, but he had to. "Gandalf took her by horse, went ahead of us. He said he was coming here."

His nephews' joy visibly dimmed. How they somehow hadn't noticed Billa's absence until now escaped Thorin, but it was understandable, he supposed, in the face of their relief at finding him alive. 

"Aw." Kíli waved a hand, his methods ever transparent as he strove to cheer his uncle up. "He probably went off on some 'urgent business' and couldn't spare the time to bring her all the way here first. I'm sure he'll be showing up anytime now, grumpy as ever , and probably in a hurry." 

Thorin's expression remained neutral. "You put such faith in him. Gandalf." 

"He's a Wizard," Kíli said emphatically, as though that were somehow a complete argument. "Nothing happens to Gandalf." 

"Or Billa," Fíli joined in. "I mean, last I saw you, you were in a fine mood, convinced Billa was dead or captured. Clearly she came through alright. And before that, walking into a dragon's lair and coming out unscathed. She's going to be fine, Uncle. You'll see."

Thorin wasn't completely convinced, but he appreciated his nephews' efforts all the same. And they were even right, at least about Billa's impossible luck. She'd always managed to pull through, one way or another. Still, there was a malicious little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him there was no guarantee this wouldn't be the time her impossible luck finally ran out.

Thorin said nothing, and the boys seemed to take this as agreement. Fíli shooed Balin away while Kíli took his uncle's hand, leading him to the steaming bath.

The rest of the day passed in a fuzzy, exhausted blur. Thorin woke the following morning to an untouched dinner and an empty stomach, only to be interrupted by a damp, eager-looking Fíli and the promise of a hot meal. The blond guided him through the halls to wherever it was that Elrond hosted what passed for hot meals here, though they never seemed to contain meat. Kíli and his bride met them partway and joined them as they walked.

At first, Thorin thought the she-elf carried a heavy burden in her arms. When he saw that her burden was actually inside her belly, he actually tripped over his own feet.

"What... what?" All eloquence escaped the dwarf as he gestured at Tauriel, who seemed suddenly self-conscious.

Kíli cleared his throat forcefully, giving Tauriel's arm a squeeze. "Mam didn't tell you?" His voice shook a little, and Thorin shut his eyes momentarily, nodding. He remembered now. Dís had told him upon her arrival in Erebor, but the matter seemed of minimal consequence at the time, and he'd put it thoroughly from his mind in the busy weeks and months that had followed.

"The child is yours, then?" He regretted the question as soon as it had left his mouth, for Tauriel blanched in distinct offense, drawing her lips into a hard line.

Kíli's reaction was a bit more forceful. " _Of course_ they are! Uncle, how can you even-"

Thorin waved a hand to silence him. "I believe you." His gaze shifted discreetly between Tauriel's belly and her face. Then he paused, eyes widening slightly. "Wait. You said _they_."

He could see Kíli's pride as the dwarrow straightened (he was still just a  _ dwarrrow _ \- too young to be having children of any sort!) and lifted his chin.

"Yes. We're having twins." The way he said "we" seemed especially strong, as though he wanted to leave no doubt in Thorin's mind that the children were indeed his.

But...  _ children _ .

Thorin shook his head slightly, overcome. Not only was their union apparently not unnatural, but it was surely blessed by Mahal.  _ Twins. _

"We never expected to be welcomed in Erebor." Kíli's tone was strained now, and Thorin realized he must had misinterpreted the silence.

"Kíli, if I regain my throne, you and your family will have a place in my hall. Always."

Surprise registered on Kíli's face, and even the she-elf could not completely conceal hers. "Uncle, I.... You mean it? Really?"

Thorin sighed wearily. "I am not one for jests."

Kíli fell silent after that, either profoundly moved or needing some time to process. Even so, relief remained radiant in his eyes, and he shared a smile with Tauriel that conveyed the same.

The meal was better than he'd remembered, quite possibly because he was famished. Or perhaps because Lord Elrond had requested foods more suited to the dwarven palate, which seemed in keeping with the elf lord's desire to make his guests feel more at home. There were, in fact, roasted meats this time, and fresh bread, and good wine (though Thorin had never known an elf host to serve a poor vintage, in his limited experience). Elrond joined them midway through the meal, apologizing and looking more troubled than Thorin had ever seen him.

"I greatly dislike darkening this time of fellowship with ill report, but I am afraid it cannot wait." Elrond cleared his throat, frown deepening beneath his golden circlet. "We have found one of Gandalf's horses, riderless, and mad with terror. We knew she was his, as she is one he has often ridden here to Imladris. The stable hands know her by name, as well as her distinct tack and markings."

Here, the elf lord shook his head gravely, pausing a long, heavy moment, as though to collect himself before continuing. "The horse bore signs of burning and injury to her hindquarters. Though it wasn't near enough the horse's wounds to have belonged to her, there was a great amount of blood dried upon her back. Enough blood to have meant the death of the rider, I fear, whoever he may have been."

Breakfast lost its appeal, and what food he had eaten turned sour in his stomach. Thorin stood, unable to suppress a shiver of terror as he locked gazes with the elf lord.

"Tell me truly..." He had to stop, his throat hot and constricted. The words wouldn't come. The dwarf forced himself to breath normally. "What are the chances that Gandalf's horse was ridden by anyone else?"

The silence that fell over the table was heavy, almost crushing. When Elrond finally answered, his words fell like lead weights into the stillness.

"I... have never seen anyone else ride that mare." His expression was strained, grief seeming to age his face in ways that seemed almost mortal. The elf couldn't have pierced Thorin's heart more deeply if he'd skewered the dwarf through with a lance. An icy calm seemed to settle over him, numbing the pain, the fear, the dread.

"Balin, you're in charge while I'm gone. Any of the rest of you that want to come, pack your things now."

"Thorin," Elrond lifted a hand, as though to calm a frightened horse, but a flurry of motion heralded the arrival of another - an old man in stained white robes.

"Lord Elrond, a moment if you please." The man's voice was deep and impressive, but unfamiliar. If Thorin had seen him before, he hadn't made a lasting impression.

"Lord Saruman." Elrond looked, once again, deeply surprised, though there were no clearly positive emotions accompanying it. If anything, Thorin sensed a certain wariness in his manner now, even as the elf lord stood, bowing. Then, as he turned to study the newcomer more thoroughly, he exclaimed, "You're injured?" Compassion eclipsed the wariness swiftly, and Elrond made motions to one of the servants standing nearby, who rushed off, probably to retrieve medical supplies.

"Orc troubles," the man said lightly, and Thorin gained the impression he was of the same order as Gandalf, though his manner couldn't have been more different. "Your borders are less safe than you may think, Elrond Peredhil." 

"Orcs?  _ In _ the Valley?" Concern now was joined by alarm, and Thorin wondered how long it would be before the elf lord simply ran out of space in which to feel all these emotions, or maybe melt from the force of them all.

The man, Saruman, lifted an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have warned you if I thought these monsters were no threat to you or your kin."

Elrond's healer arrived, carrying a satchel. The elf lord had the presence of mind to order her to tend Saruman before turning to one of his guards. He gave orders in elvish, something about a "war party," if Thorin's understanding of the tongue hadn't gotten too rusty, and the guard bowed and moved off quickly.

"I am afraid I must leave at once," Elrond announced, turning back to his guests, an apology in his eyes. "Thorin, I believe your purpose would be better served remaining here until the Orc threat is dealt with. If you leave now, you will be putting yourself - and whoever accompanies you - at dire risk."

Thorin realized then that he was half turned toward the door. His fingernails were biting into his palms and if he wasn't bleeding, he would be surprised. But Elrond's words struck deep, and he felt anger and fear swell under the ice that kept him functional.

"If you expect me to stand idly by while my One is in danger, then you know nothing of me or my kind. Look to your kin, elf, and I'll look to mine." Thorin let his words settle, then forced his fists to open. He could feel himself shaking slightly. Gandalf's horse, injured and covered in blood. Billa, missing. Orcs in the area. The pieces fell together far too well for his peace of mind.

Elrond hesitated, and in Thorin's mind at least, he seemed to be calculating just how to proceed. The dwarf felt the extent of his own imprisonment here, now. The elf lord could hinder him, if he willed it, could keep him from going after Billa. He should've said nothing, played the compliant guest and then gotten away as soon as Elrond had gone.

To his surprise, Elrond nodded. "As you will, Thorin Oakenshield. I bid you add, however, your duty to your people into the balance of your decision-making. If you are killed in this venture, Erebor remains in Dain's keeping, and you will never have the chance to vindicate yourself of the charges he made against you."

Thorin tensed. On the one hand, he was furious that an elf, even Lord Elrond, would think to _lecture_ him on duty. On the other hand... he was forced to admit that he was _right,_ and that galled him in many more ways than he would ever admit.

"How many times can I be asked to choose between my people and my One?" Thorin hated that his voice was audibly strained, though as steady and calm as anyone might have wished.

Elrond was clearly in a hurry, else he might have stayed to argue the point. "Master dwarf, I ask nothing of you other than that you consider my words. I must leave, alas, for my first duty is to my people now, and not my guests." As gentle as the statement issued, Thorin understood a hint of scorn.

The elf lord turned away, his silk shoulder drapes flowing out behind him. He paused in the arched doorway, though, as if having second thoughts. "Thorin Oakenshield, if go you must, it is my wish you do not go without help. I will see to it you have an escort."

It was aggravating, to say the least, being so shamed by an elf. After a dressing-down like that, even as gentle as it was, Thorin had no choice but to put his people first and, as always, completely disregard the danger that Billa might be facing, even now. It was maddening. Impotent rage and fear roared in his breast, but he carefully hid any outward signs of it.

Turning slightly, he looked back at the rest of his Company. Every eye was fixed on him, waiting for instruction, for an announcement of what they were going to do. He was their leader. Their king. He wouldn't let them down.

"Balin, Dwalin, you're in charge while I'm gone. Send missives to our kin in Ered Luin, let them know how the situation stands. My lord," he turned to Elrond, who had hesitated just long enough, it seemed, to hear his response, "I'll accept your offer of an escort. Thank you." Better to appease the nosy elf. A voice that was all too much like Billa's reminded him that he owed Elrond a lifedebt, and he suppressed a grunt of exasperation. She wasn't here to hear it anyway.

"Those who would come, gather your things. Those who intend to stay, help the others get ready." Thorin strode quickly into the hall, intent on gathering supplies and getting out of Rivendell as fast as possible. Without Billa... if she was hurt, if she was dead... he would be a broken king, shattered upon the world's unyielding sorrows. Saving her was something he had to at least try. Not doing so would ruin him in too many ways to risk it.

"Thorin. Ya can't mean te leave me behind." Dwalin was limping heavily as he caught up, scowling.

"I do mean to, and I will. Old friend, you would slow us down and we both know it."

"I've kept up this long, and I won't let ye go tearin' off inte th' Wild without someone te watch yer back." The warrior scowled, making a broad gestured that was clearly meant to encompass many things. "Besides, you'll be on horseback, more than likely. These elves won't let you run off on foot."

Thorin sighed, stopping and indicating for the rest of the group to pass them. He waited until they were alone in the hall to speak, knowing all too well that Dwalin wouldn't like what he was going to say.

"Show me your leg."

"What about it?"

"Show me."

Grumbling, Dwalin hiked up his pant leg, exposing the place where the metal peg protruded from the truncated limb. The scant inches of flesh below his knee were badly swollen, splotched red and purple in an ugly pattern of burst blood vessels and spreading infection. 

Thorin drew in a sharp breath, more of a gasp than he'd have liked to admit.

"Oh, fer Mahal's sake." Dwalin snorted. "Ye act like it's fallen off."

Thorin straightened, shaking his head. "You're not coming, Dwalin. You need to have your leg seen to, or you'll be no use to me when I return."

"Time enough fer that on th' way," Dwalin protested, crossing his arms adamantly. "I won't have my weight on 't." As Thorin's gaze rose to meet his again, he was surprised to see something like desperation lurking in the hulking dwarf's eyes.

"Ye can't leave me, Thorin, and that's th' way of it." 

Thorin shook his head slightly, and said nothing. What words could change Dwalin's mind? What could he possibly say that would make any difference at all? Nothing. And, though he was reluctant to admit it, he was afraid leaving him behind would break his old friend.

"If that gets worse," he nodded to Dwalin's injured leg, "I'm sending you back, and that's the end of it."

In the courtyard, Lord Elrond had already called together a sizeable force, elves in nearly identical armor, mounted and awaiting further orders. A smaller group of elves - six, Thorin counted - materialized seemingly from nowhere as soon as Thorin's dwindling Company came into sight, clearly the escort Elrond had pledged. All were mounted and outfitted as the others, and to an elf, looked dour as gravestones. Thorin turned to take stock of his group, wondering with some chagrin whether they'd all be forced to ride full-sized horses. He hadn't reckoned on riding at all. Glóin, Gimli, Nikû, Bofur, Ginii, Fíli. No Kíli. 

"Fíli, where's your brother?" 

"Took the elf back to the room." The blond looked uncertain. "Not sure if he's coming, Uncle. He said he couldn't leave her. I..." Fíli sighed, looking torn. "I couldn't leave Ori, if she were in the same way."

Thorin's mind turned almost immediately toward Billa and their unborn child, but the emotional reaction to that thought was so visceral, so violent, that he just as quickly turned his mind to Ori instead. This gut reaction had unsettled him so thoroughly that he scanned the group three times before he realized the dwarrowdam wasn't there.

"Can I assume that since you  _ are _ leaving her, she's not 'the same way'?" Thorin lifted an eyebrow at Fíli, who blushed and mumbled a half-baked protest. This interaction, so simple, so... normal - it steadied him a little. The world wasn't falling apart. The end was not upon them. They were dwarves. They would endure.

"Fíli, what do our supplies look like?"

The young dwarf looked grateful for the change of subject. "We've got enough to feed us for a week, new weapons, cloaks, and medical supplies." When Thorin's eyebrows lifted again, Fíli shrugged. "The elves brought them out with their own supplies." The blond nodded to the mounted escort. Satisfied, the dwarf king strode through their slightly pathetic group and stopped before the ginger female. He couldn't remember her name, but knew Fíli and traveled with and fought beside her.

He was considering what to say, how to address his lack of trust toward outsiders, when she noticed he was standing there. An expression of awe crossed her bearded face, and her eyes widened a little as she bowed deeply. It was as though she were trying to decide whether or not to kneel. 

She didn't, in the end, for which Thorin was grateful. When her eyes met his again, he nodded, as though to acknowledge her reverence, and turned back to the elves. He'd ask Fíli about her later. Questioning her loyalty here and now didn't seem meet, and would doubtless offend. "We have horses for you, Oakenshield," said one of the elves, and Thorin nodded somewhat dubiously. He could ride a full-sized horse well enough, but he knew some of the others in his party might find themselves less up to the challenge. 

"The stables are through there." The elf indicated wide, arched doorways off to his right, through which, as if on cue, issued a whinny, followed by an answering one. The group retrieved the supplies that had been set aside for them and quickly filled their saddlebags, though the process of mounting up was accomplished with less ease. 

Gimli and Glóin seemed particularly uncomfortable atop the high-backed beasts, though Thorin was surprised to see Ginii mount smoothly and with skill, as though she were quite as familiar with horses as with ponies. Thorin was more than usually thankful to see that the stirrups had already been adjusted to accommodate his Company, but he had to let his out a bit. Still, it was less than a handful of minutes before everything was ready, and he led the mounted dwarves out into the courtyard once more. 

"Anyone seen Dori?" Bofur asked suddenly, sounding concerned. 

Thorin swept an eye over the group, noting Balin's presence on the ground, near the door, Dwalin's face, tight with pain, Ginii and Nikû watching him with slightly impatient expressions.

"He decided to stay with Ori," said Fíli after a moment. "Said he might head back to the Blue Mountains to let everyone know what's been happening, after the twins are born and all."

Bofur looked disappointed, but Thorin was grateful when he didn't dismount or turn back. The morale of the group had improved slightly since arriving at Rivendell. It would be a shame to lose that edge now. With a tap of his heels, Thorin sent his steed forward at a brisk trot, followed by the rest. The elves brought up the rear, and for now at least, Thorin ignored them. They weren't part of his Company, and he couldn't afford to take on responsibility for any more lives than he already had.

As they moved toward the nearest path out of the steep valley, Thorin became aware of Dwalin's breathing, behind him and to his left. The warrior was grunting under his breath as his mount's gait jostled him in the saddle, and under that, the sound of ragged gasping. The dwarf king turned a little to look back at his old friend, and saw Dwalin's face was nearly grey with pain. The issue was apparent to Thorin, and it was clear Nikû and Ginii, riding behind him, were also aware--the horse's size made it necessary for Dwalin to grip her sides with his legs, but his injured leg wasn't up to the task. Thorin imagined some of the falls Dwalin had taken over the last few days had inflicted more damage than he was letting on, too. Deep bruising could be just as incapacitating as a stab wound, if it was in the wrong place.

The dwarf king drew his horse to a halt, indicating the others should pass by. They did, but not without a few concerned looks. Dwalin seemed to understand Thorin had recognized his difficulty and shook his head, as if he already knew what his leader would say.

"Dwal, I'll make a good pretext. No one will know."

"Don't know what yer on about."

Thorin gave him a look that meant  _ we both know that's not true _ .

The warrior's ashen complexion grew somehow paler. "Ye can't leave me there, Thorin. I'll go mad." Dwalin's horse shifted suddenly, jostling him again. He was unable to conceal a wince. Or the look of shame that replaced it. "Ye  _ need _ me out there." But the strained sound of his voice only firmed Thorin's resolve.

"I'll need you more later. If you die out in the wilds during this search, who will protect me when the time comes to return to Erebor?"

This question, though rhetorical, seemed to ease Dwalin's distress very slightly. Thorin knew he didn't have time to convince him, so, with a sigh, he pointed back along the path with an air of finality.

"Stay with your brother. I'll call for you when we've found her." For now, he couldn't bring himself to believe there would be any other outcome. Thorin wheeled his horse to follow the others, and found Nikû, sitting calmly on a smallish brown horse and watching them steadily.

"May I?" she asked softly as Thorin paused. The dwarf was at first confused, then realized the link. Nikû was also a bodyguard, sworn to fight and protect, who had been separated from her charge. Thorin nodded, and Nikû passed him quietly, pulling her horse to a stop when she was beside Dwalin.

Thorin turned his back on the scene and spurred his horse on after the others. This, he thought, was not something he needed to hear. He was. grateful, however, that Nikû was taking a moment to help her fellow guard through this. His sister's bodyguard had proved nothing if not fiercely loyal and extremely capable during their journey. He trusted her.

If these past few months had been any indication, he thought Dwalin, too, had recognized her quality. In this hostile environment, such allies were rare , indeed, and one was wise to keep them close. The party waited up ahead, horses stamping impatiently and nickering softly to one another. 

"What's going  on?" Fíli looked troubled, but Thorin made a dismissive noise. 

"It's nothing. I've asked Dwalin to stay behind with his brother, in case Billa somehow  finds her way back here. They might have to set out to meet us if we haven't returned by then, and Balin can't lead such a venture by himself."

Most of the dwarves seemed to accept this, nodding a little and then turning their mounts to proceed down the path. The elves had taken the lead, and already were nudging their horses up through the steep pass that would take them out of the Hidden Valley. There was one whose expression showed disbelief, though. Fíli watched his uncle with eyes too sharp and old for his young face.

Thorin felt an unpleasant lurch in the pit of his stomach as he recognized himself in his nephew's expression and realized he didn't want the blond to become like him. Not this way. He didn't want Fíli to be bitter and desperate all the days of his life.

He'd just opened his mouth to say something (just what, he still wasn't sure) when Nikû's horse trotted around the bend to join the tail end of their little procession. Thorin shut his mouth again and decided he would speak with Fíli later. Right now, he had a search to lead.

The search was hopelessly broad. To cover the enormous swathe of land between Rohan and Rivendell with any thoroughness would have taken many months, if not years, and Billa couldn't wait forever.  _ It could already be too late. _ Thorin couldn't afford to give that particular notion a foothold. Not if he still hoped to function as he was required to. The panic gnawing at his insides was less easy to dispel, however, ever reminding him of the need for haste. At least now the Company had more of a capacity for speed without exhausting their still-recovering stores of endurance. Thorin had given the elves (amongst whose number were several scouts) as thorough an account of the journey from Rohan as he could, using a detailed map Elrond had provided to identify the tiny village they'd passed through shortly after parting ways with the Wizard. 

Still, there was no well-traveled road that would give them any obvious starting point, though Thorin knew Gandalf would have taken the most direct route, given his desire for haste. Unless he felt it was too dangerous. That, unfortunately, was a very real possibility.

Thus, after consulting with the elves, it was decided that they would search the direct route first, then explore the surrounding area, first to the south, then to the north. If they found nothing... Thorin felt his insides twist at that thought. If they found nothing, then they would return to Rivendell to gather the rest of the Company, and continue to Ered Luin. They were in no condition to march on Erebor, even if it had been a week's march away, rather than a month or more by horseback.

Ravines and gullies and streams and trees and trees and trees. The land all seemed very much the same as they rode, mile after mile, league after league.

Thorin's mind kept returning, unwillingly, to the ravine where they'd taken shelter from the rain, and more particularly to the blood they had found there. Try as he might to turn these thoughts aside, he continually found himself once more in their midst, as though he were hemmed in by walls of circular guilt.  _ It's not possible. It can't be. _    


"What's not possible?" Bofur's hushed voice at his side pulled him back to reality, and he realized he'd unknowingly spoken aloud. Flushing slightly, he cleared his throat. 

"Nothing. I- was just thinking." The hatted dwarf gave him a surprisingly keen look, as  though he had his suspicions. 

After a moment's hesitation, Bofur spoke up again. "The lads an' I were just sayin' as we might split up. We'd cover more  ground right enough, an' there's plenty of us t' form two good-sized groups."

"Perhaps tomorrow." Thorin eyed the canopy above and the shards of sky just visible through verdant boughs, and knew they would be settling down to camp at first dark. They had two, maybe three hours of good light left. Lowering his gaze to the forest floor again, he noticed with some surprise that Bofur was still looking at him. Thorin lifted an eyebrow, and the miner shrugged.

"She'll be alright, Thorin. It's the Wizard I worry about."

"Gandalf?" Caught off-guard by Bofur's assertion, Thorin couldn't help but respond, though he hadn't intended to.

"Aye. When we find 'im, there's at least two dwarves what'll tan 'is hide fer 'im." The miner doffed his hat with a grin, and Thorin even chuckled, surprised into laughter.

"Smoke! Smoke on the horizon!" The call came from Gimli, some yards to Thorin's right. When The dwarf king urged his horse to join the dwarrow, he found Gimli standing precariously on his beast's molded saddle in the middle of a fair-sized clearing. The youngling wobbled a little as Thorin approached, but his horse remained as still as a. stone bench.

"Over there - looks like a camp fire." Gimli pointed, and Thorin lifted himself in his stirrups, to see a thin, ragged column of smoke, barely visible over the trees.

"How far?" Thorin's heart had already begun to race. Maybe this was it.

"No more than a league. Maybe a little less."

As he turned to call to the others, Thorin heard a faint buzz, growing louder...  like a very large and angry wasp. He realized what it was a second too late as an orc arrow glanced off of Gimli's shoulder. The young dwarf cried out in pain and fell, but Thorin hardly registered it as three hulking orcs charged out of the trees, bellowing their challenge to the world.

In the chaotic instants that followed, Thorin was impressed by three things. One, the surprise on the elves' faces. Two, the horses remaining perfectly still and calm beneath them. Three, and this one came last, black slime running down the groove of his sword, and an orc head pitching backward from its sinewy pedestal. The other two assailants were dealt with swiftly, dropped by elven arrows. The group's nerves seemed to be the primary casualty, though Gimli had serious bruising along his shoulder beneath the simple scale pauldrons he wore. The youngling tried to dismiss any concern as an elf skilled in healing poked and prodded at him in some kind of examination. 

"It's nothing at all, a wee thing, really," he protested, wincing as the elf found a particularly delicate spot. Three of the other elves quickly dismounted and searched the immediate area around the clearing to ensure they wouldn't be taken unawares again. Thorin knew there were sure to be more at the camp, but he wasn't about to go charging into the orcs' fire circle without knowing first just what they were up against. The elves returned shortly, whispering an "all clear." 

"And the camp?" Thorin's tone was tense and guarded as he looked up from the sword he'd been cleaning in the grass. 

"Well-guarded," a scout offered, entering the clearing from the other direction. "It may not be long before they notice these filth are missing." He glanced at the dark, twisted bodies with disgust. Typical orc-scum, with one exception. Their sword hilts seemed to have been crudely fashioned to resemble bony hands, curled into fists, as were the limb ornaments of their bows. Thorin studied them gravely but said nothing of them. 

"Any sign of Billa?"

The scout shook his dark head. Another elf, a fair-haired female, spoke in a low voice.

"We have sufficient numbers. We could rout them." Her angular face was, like all elves, ageless. There burned in her eyes a fierceness that reminded Thorin of his nephews, and that she-elf Kíli had taken. Tauriel. Loyalty and determination. She wanted to drive the orcs from her home, and Thorin didn't blame her. Still, that was not their purpose.

"No. We can't afford the time it would take, nor the casualties. We press on."

"Hey, wait." Gimli looked up, his face tight with pain. "The smoke-"

"The orcs are camped nearby," pointed out an elf impatiently. Gimli shook his head.

"No, the smoke I saw was almost a league away. It can't be the same."

Thorin hesitated, then glanced at the dark-haired scout, who rolled his eyes, but leapt lightly onto his horse and stood in the stirrups. "I see no smoke," he reported shortly. 

"My King, what if the orcs already have Billa?" Nikû's daggers were still poised in her hands, and her voice quavered slightly. "You'd pass by the camp without making sure?" After months on the road with her closest companion his One, Thorin knew the bodyguard had forged a bond with Billa. How deep it ran, though, only now became clear. Thorin hesitated long enough that the dark-haired elven scout saw an opening. 

"We have no evidence the halfling was even in this area." 

"And no evidence she  _ wasn't _ ," Nikû persisted. A guttural, gurgling sound, shockingly close, rose to chill the moment that followed. It was only recognized for what it was once the source was identified. One of the orc bodies in the clearing... was shuddering with laughter. The elves had arrows on the string in an instant, prepared to silence it. Before they could loose them, however, Nikû leapt into a crouch over the creature, her knives at its throat. 

"Wait." Thorin had already crossed the clearing, blade at the ready. "Stand aside." 

"This one knows something," the dwarrowdam insisted. The orc twitched in some deathly spasm, laughter still gurgling amidst dark blood and foam. Still, the words its twisted mouth formed amidst the wretched noises of its mirth were unmistakeable now. 

"The halfling...."

Thorin's blood seemed to be simultaneously boiling and freezing as fear and rage tore through him. He didn't have time to act, to speak, before Nikû's daggers moved. One buried itself to the hilt in the orc's muscular shoulder.

"What about the halfling?" hissed the dwarrowdam. Thorin was abstractly grateful that the female wasn't his enemy.

The orc gurgled in pain, and more bloody froth leaked from the corner of its mouth. "The master took the halfling," it growled, seeming to chew the words as though they were chunks of gravel. Its beady eyes fixed on Thorin, lighting with infernal hatred. "The white one will have you, Oakenshield, alive or dead."

Horror traveled up Thorin's spine like icy needles of frost, numb and tingling.  White one. It couldn't be. 

"Azog is dead, you filth," he hissed, seizing the matted warg pelt strapped across the orc's un-skewered shoulder and giving the brute a firm shake. The orc wheezed, caught between pain and amuse ment, its scabby, pockmarked face twisted in a rictus half grimace, half grin. 

"Won't keep him from his revenge." 

Thorin leaned closer, eyes blazing fie rce and desperate. "Where is she?" Either the orc was heedless of its peril, or it assumed it would expire before the dwarf king could inflict much more  pain. 

"The little rat?" The creature spat, cackling again with laughter. "Bet he's having some fun with her now, eh?"

Thorin lifted his blade, propelled by more emotion than his body could possibly contain. He remembered the sound of her screams, the smell of burning flesh, the way she shuddered under the brand. He wouldn't let that happen again. Couldn't.

Nikû was closer. Her second knife slid into the orc's forearm like a fish through water, and the dwarrowdam's expression was as hard as a mountain's face as she twisted the blade, forcing the two bones apart and severing the tendon.

Thorin's sword paused at the height of its swing as the orc howled in pain, dark eyes rolling madly in its ugly head.

"Where is the halfling?" asked Nikû, and her tone promised more pain if he refused to answer.

The orc sputtered in its fluids, twitching violently as it strove for words. "Dead!" it roared, finally. "Your little rat is dead!"

Nikû went very pale, and why Thorin noticed this, of all things, he didn't know. Things seemed to slow into little flashes of observation. The orc's head separating from its body. The shifting and stamping of the horses behind him. The sound of voices overlapping and running together. Dark blood on his hands. His insides turned to ice, hope crystallized and shattered as his view of the world blurred into shifting shades of tree and earth.

"Thorin, I-" Fíli's voice at his side seemed somehow far away. "Uncle?" Firm pressure on his arm finally grounded him a little. His gaze focused again, his senses rushing back in upon him, as he glanced downward. His nephew had a hold of his sword arm, and was fixing him with a look of concern. And wary evaluation.

"Thorin... I'm sorry." 

"We have horses, and most of them are on foot," the dark-haired scout pointed out. "We can outstrip their warg riders."

Thorin didn't reply. With some reluctance, Fíli returned the sword, still stained with orc blood, and the group mounted again quickly. The first of the approaching Orcs' grunts and snarls of delight, as their nostrils no doubt twitched with the scent of their quarry, carried into the clearing, and the dwarf king pivoted in the saddle.

"I ask none of you to follow me. You are bound by no oath, and will not be thought craven if you choose to flee." He sighed, looking for all the world as though life bore no meaning now beyond the task ahead and the death he hoped waited in its midst.

The dark-haired scout spoke up once more, speech clipped and urgent. "As you will, Oakenshield. I have no desire to see the halfling unavenged, or to allow Orc-filth to roam these lands unchecked. But throwing away your life - and that of these companions - for a few minutes' solace in the blood of these animals speaks of folly, not wisdom. I return to my Lord Elrond. Follow me, those that will."

Of the six elves that had accompanied them, three turned to follow their outspoken leader. One of the scouts, the fair-haired one that had tried to convince them to attack the orc camp earlier, stood her ground.

"You're going to abandon our charges?" Her tone wasn't accusatory, but the dark-haired scout reacted as though it had been, turning in his saddle to frown at her.

"I was sent to protect, not to throw myself into the jaws of wargs for the vengeance of a king who is not mine."

"Whether he is my king or not, I accepted my place by his side. I will not turn faithless when the road grows dark."

The elves looked at each other hard for a long moment before the dark-haired one nodded slightly. "Then Valar guide you," he murmured, and spurred his horse into the trees.

Despite the singleness of the maelstrom within himself, Thorin couldn't help but feel a small ripple of surprise. He'd quite expected all the elves to immediately tuck tail and run at the first sign of danger to themselves. To see instead honor and loyalty - to  _ him _ , or at least, to their orders... he didn't really know what to do with that. Would it always be so surprising when elves didn't stoop to his pathetic expectations for them? In his mind's eye, he could still see - vivid as anything - the image of Thranduil, mounted and equipped for war, an army at his back, at the crest of the ridge. He could feel the pangs of desolation, the utter  _ betrayal _ of the elves, as he watched them turn away, leaving their sometime allies to die.

No. Not all elves were the same. Even  _ he _ couldn't be so blind as to think so anymore.

The dwarves looked torn. Even those that seemed more frightened than the others, namely Gimli and Bofur, didn't move to follow the elves as they nudged their steeds toward the trees. The excited howling of the orcs drew nearer, and Thorin sensed Fíli at his side before his nephew spoke.

"Uncle, please... don't do this." The blond's voice was firm, but held an undercurrent of panic. "I understand what you're feeling, and I know that it's... listen, please. I need you too much to watch you throw your life away on this."

The decision Thorin found himself making was one of the most difficult he had ever faced. But as he stared into his nephew's beseeching face, his nephew, who had become less and less the one he remembered, his desire for vengeance grew cold. Slaying these orcs - or indeed, every orc in Middle-earth - wouldn't bring Billa back. He could almost hear her familiar voice shouting at him now. 

_Ride, you idiot dwarf! If you do this, I'll never forgive you._ The thought brought a faint smile to his face. 

"Uncle?" Fíli probably thought he was going mad. No. This wasn't what she would want. Not remotely. 

"We ride." The words nearly choked Thorin, but he knew he was making the right decision. The foremost orcs into the clearing caught a brief glimpse of a horse's hind legs and tail, which were quickly swallowed up by overgrowth and distance. The wargs would be after them soon, Thorin knew, but at least now they had a chance. 

Thorin could see two horses ahead of him, and hear the rest to the sides and behind. Glóin, broad shoulders hunched and calloused fists clenched in the horse's mane, clung to his steed for dear life. The ginger warrior's eyes might very well have been closed, for all the effort he was making to direct his mount. Behind them, the orcs howled and bellowed, furious that their prey was getting away. Their voices faded into the distance behind them, unable to keep up with the swift pace of the elven horses.

Their flight slowed when the light started to fade, and Thorin felt... just too tired to think, let alone lead. When he failed to give any further instructions, Fíli reluctantly took charge, directing them back toward the Valley. Somewhere in the distance, wargs still howled, and their horses seemed unwilling to stop, despite the blisters and sores most of the Company had undoubtedly developed.

It was with an effort that Ginii finally convinced them to stop. "The horses need rest," she insisted, brow furrowed in the waning light. "Besides, we might yet find something. Orcs aren't exactly well-known for telling the truth."

Thorin shook his head mutely. The orc wouldn't have lied out of any loyalty for its own kind, or its master. The pain-wracked creature's face had borne no craft or intent to deceive - not in that moment, anyway. Its eyes were those of an animal willing to spill everything it knew in hopes that its pain would be ended. He could still hear its scratchy, gurgly voice in his ears, and wished he could somehow wash it out of his memory altogether. But no. He deserved no such mercy. 

"We'll stay here an hour or so, but we can't risk a fire." Fíli's orders were hushed but earnest, and Thorin wondered obliquely whether his nephew might not make a better leader - if not a better king - than him after all. Bofur sighed nearby, and Thorin thought the poor miner looked more desolate than anyone as he dropped into the grass and fished in his pockets. In the diffuse moonlight, it wasn't immediately clear what he was looking for until he'd retrieved it and settled it between his teeth. He didn't light the pipe, though, just sat staring off into space, blank-faced.

The others milled about for a while, watering the horses and passing around dried fruit and bread. Sitting in the almost dark, no warmth of fire or conversation, was perhaps the most miserable feeling in the world. Gave Thorin too much time to think. 

"Uncle." Fíli was standing over him, a small bundle in his hand. "You need to eat while we have the chance. I don't think Billa would want you starving yourself." 

Thorin tensed at that, as though his nephew's words were a physical blow. "I don't need you to remind me what Billa would have wanted," he said coldly, unable to look at the young dwarf anymore. He slumped a little, shuddering slightly. "I  _ know _ ."

Fíli's uncomfortable silence seemed to indicate he knew he'd overstepped. With a sigh, Thorin accepted the food and forced himself to take a bite. It was like sand in his mouth, as unappetizing as anything he'd ever had the misfortune of attempting to eat.

After two more bites, he gave up and passed off his food to Gimli, who was less affected by the orc's news than the rest of them. Thorin stood, making an effort to shake off the weight that threatened to drown him in despair. All that was left of worth to him was action. He had to  _ do  _ something, else he would lose himself to the mad grief that clawed at his chest with every breath.

Ignoring Fíli as the blond followed him, Thorin left the little clearing, seeking by the power of his legs to leave the darkness behind. With nothing but darkness ahead, it was hard to imagine there was anything beyond it. Memories plagued him; of the Quest, their time in Laketown, watching her walk into the dragon's lair, finding her in the Battle, her small warmth beside him when he woke after what he'd thought was death.

When Thorin boots tangled in something, he stumbled and muttered a curse. He stooped to free himself, but paused when he discovered the material that had tripped him was fabric. Carefully disengaging himself from the damp, ragged cloth, he lifted it into the moonlight, somewhat curious in a detached sort of way.

The rough grey material seemed familiar, but it wasn't until Fíli had joined him that he realized what it was. Torn and limp, stained dark in places with what Thorin suspected was blood, hanging sadly in his hands was what remained of Gandalf's robes.

Revulsion and grief gripped him anew.

"What is it?" asked Fíli, his gaze finding his uncle's questioningly.

"An answer," muttered Thorin, and he passed the fabric to his nephew, resisting the urge to clean his hands. 

Fíli's sharp intake of breath revealed he, too, recognized the garment. There was little light to see it by, of course, but the design - the various pleats and folds - were unmistakeable.

His nephew sniffed, shaking his head slowly. "And the body?" His voice shook a little, as though he feared the response he might receive.

Thorin indicated no. "I don't suppose there would be much to find." His implication extended, also, to Billa now, much as he hated it. The scavengers would've made short work of any flesh they found lying about. He shuddered at the thought. Or perhaps Wizards simply vanished upon death. Wouldn't have been all that surprising.

"Think we should... look around a bit?" Fíli folded the tattered robe with a tender respect Thorin found so very far removed from their desperate circumstances, draping it over his belt. "Might at least get a better idea of what happened." 

Thorin reluctantly agreed. He wasn't sure if he could handle finding Billa's remains, no matter how unrecognizable. But now that the possibility of finding her had been raised, he knew that he would never be able to forgive himself for not looking, for not knowing for certain what had happened to her.

So at Fíli's suggestion, he remained and Thorin went back to the rest of the group and brought them to help in the search. They spread out, scouring the ground around the trees and under the bushes. Bofur found traces of what might have been old, washed-out hoofprints. Probably from the horse that had returned to Rivendell. With little else to go off of, they followed the stale spore, since the area around where Gandalf's robes had been was bare of anything of note.

Fíli was the one that located the ring, wedged between a thick root and the neighboring bush. It was Gandalf's, certainly, but why was it here, so far from where his body must have lain? Unless the Wizard was staggering about, injured and nude... but Thorin didn't much like that idea.

Still, no sign of Billa. Not so much as a footprint, or a scrap of clothing. Then again, if this "white one" had taken her, perhaps to question her before she was killed... she could have ended up anywhere. In a ravine, perhaps, or a river, or the utmost depths of a forest.

Another hour's search turned up nothing more, and Thorin was forced to call off the effort. It wasn't safe to linger here much longer. They had already been pushing their luck.

"We'll find out what happened to Billa. I _know_ we will." Fíli's words were doubtless meant to be consoling, but Thorin found them forced and empty. Obligatory.

"I sent her to her death," he murmured absently. "I forced her to leave the Company. She didn't want to. I made her. Thought she'd be safe. Thought Gandalf was...." His breathing was becoming sharp and shallow again, but he scarcely noticed.

Fíli nodded, resting a hand on his uncle's shoulder. The others had already saddled the horses again, and were in the process of packing up supplies. Buried in the sounds of shuffling and activity, Thorin's rambling had gone mostly unnoticed.

"We thought Gandalf was invincible," Fíli agreed. "I'd have trusted him with Ori in a heartbeat, you know. It's not your fault."

"It  _ is _ my fault."

Fíli sighed, seeming to ponder a different tack. "We should take these back to Rivendell." He pulled the stained and singed robe from his belt, and Thorin knew the ring they'd found was also implied. "Lord Elrond might see a clue we've missed. Or Saruman. A fellow Wizard would know who or what could've defeated Gandalf." 

Thorin cast his mind disparagingly back to the Wizard with his neat beard and hard blue eyes and long white robes. The dwarf hopped onto a stump to mount his horse. As he swung his leg over the beast's back, though, Thorin paused, his mind working furiously.

White.

The single word reverberated through him like the peal of a gong.

White.

White robe, White Wizard, "white one," white hand.

Saruman's mysterious certainty that they were dead.

His lack of surprise upon seeing Thorin was alive.

His injuries.

White.

"Are ye alright?" Bofur was standing on the stump beside him, waiting for Thorin to move his horse so he could mount. The dwarf king stared down at Bofur was though seeing him for the first time, as though the curtain of grief had been lifted suddenly.

"Saruman." Thorin turned away from the thoroughly unsettled miner to look for his nephew. Fíli twisted in his saddle, frowning.

"What?"

"Saruman," Thorin repeated. "The  _ White One. _ "

Fíli started to say something, but stopped, his confused expression changing to one of dawning comprehension. Concern eclipsed understanding and he looked sharply Thorin, clearly thinking he'd just completely lost his mind.

"Thorin, what are you _t_ _ alking _ about?" There was wariness beneath the question, a hesitancy to make the same leap Thorin had.

"Saruman killed Gandalf. Saruman the White." Thorin waited a moment for the assertion to sink in. He could see the others' faces shifting in mingled disbelief and shock. Even if they thought he was grief-mad, they didn't dare dismiss the notion out of hand before hearing Thorin's case.

"Think!" he commanded, doubt beginning to creep into his mind again. "Who would've known where to find Gandalf? Who would have known how to  _ defeat _ him? You think the burns on the horse were dealt by an orc?!"

Bofur frowned, shaking his head as though he still didn't quite understand. Or was incredulous. "Wait, yer sayin' Saruman's behind all this?  _ Saruman _ betrayed Gandalf? But... why?"

Thorin hesitated. Then it all became clear. Gandalf's words before he'd departed, the  _ reason _ for his departure itself. "Because he wanted something Billa had. Something far more dangerous than any of us realized."

"He t'ought she still had the Arkenstone?" Bofur asked, voice hushed with horror.

Thorin considered tell them all his suspicions, but the thought was short-lived at best. No. They didn't need to know. Especially now.

"Perhaps," he growled ominously.

"If that's it," said Fíli doubtfully, though Thorin could see in his nephew's face that he was at least partially convinced, "then we should head back to Rivendell right away and warn Lord Elrond."

Thorin's gaze swept the group. He has a new purpose, a new goal, and it had reinvigorated him. Revenge was a familiar pursuit, and it was almost comforting to settle back into the anger that had driven him for so long.

"You can go back if you wish. I shall ride to the Wizard's stronghold."

"Why? We left Saruman in Rivendell with-"

"And you think he'll stay there?" Thorin demanded vehemently. "The more time we spend here quibbling, the more time we lose in beating that traitorous scum to the pass. The longer we can keep him ignorant of our knowledge, the less time he'll have to dispose of us, like he did the others. He's stooped to allying himself with the orcs. How much further will he go to get what he wants?"

Silence followed, broken only by the distant howl of wargs, growing steadily closer. In a moment, Fíli's expression hardened, and his decision was made.

"Ginii, you're the best rider." The blond turned to his young, ginger companion. "Head back to Rivendell as fast as you can and warn Elrond - but only if the Wizard is already gone. Take these and deliver them to the elves. Let the rest of our Company know what's going on. Balin will tell you what to do after that. Understood?"

The dwarrowdam's expression firmed as she took the torn robes and the ruby ring. She turned to her horse and vaulted into the saddle, her movements comfortable and confident. She wheeled her steed and spurred him into the trees, where they quickly disappeared from sight. 

Thorin set his jaw grimly, urging his horse into a trot, the faint beacons of the night sky his only guide. The thought that Billa's murderer would face justice at the end of his sword was a small comfort, and very little in the face of what had been lost. What he would  _ continue _ to lose until such a time as he, too, met his end. The years he had longed to share with his One, in peace and safety, would never come. The child they would have loved and cherished, snuffed out as surely and forever as its mother, as though neither had ever existed at all. 

_ Oh, Billa. It should have been me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take a moment to assure you all that, as promised, no hobbits or unborn babies have been harmed in the writing of this fic. Billa and her baby are both still alive (if not necessarily "well") and will make an appearance soon. 
> 
> Breathe easy.   
> Drink tea.  
> Billa lives.


	25. Billa and Thorin; Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billa is lost, and so is Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry for my tardiness. I will post again tomorrow. I promise. 
> 
> Forgive me, I must fly! *dashes off*

Wet. The wet was everywhere. Not particularly cold, but chill. At least, she thought it was. Things like that were hard to concentrate on. Things farther out than her limbs were impossible... even her limbs seemed very far away. But she could feel them now, which was an improvement.

Billa could tell that there was light on the other side of her eyelids. It was morning again. Today was the day. Today, she would.... The hobbit's thoughts trailed off into incoherent chaos, then collected again. Water. She needed water. It was wet all over, and the drops she gathered from rocks and leaves were all very well, but she needed real water. A real drink.

Her mind drifted vaguely to a celebration... she wasn't sure which one. Dark, rich ale in her mug, warming her throat. Thorin's soft laughter at her elbow. His hand on her back. The scent of his hair, the taste of his skin.

Billa pulled herself back to the present. Today was the day. Her hands and knees were raw from crawling. Not that she'd gotten all that far, but they were raw all the same, scraped and cut by the rocks all around.

Carefully, she sat up. Her head throbbed unpleasantly, and her stomach twisted, but the earth under her tipped only minimally. Encouraged, she checked the makeshift bandages holding her wounds shut. Strips of her shirt, now ragged and stiff with blood, wrapped around her shoulder, chest and stomach. It left her positively indecent, but better half nude than dead.

Her unborn child fluttered uncertainly in her belly, and Billa remembered that yesterday's mushrooms had been small and many hours ago.

"Don't worry, little one," she assured the babe, using her hands to brace herself. Her voice was rough and barely recognizable, but speaking made her feel better. "Your daddy will find us. Don't you worry."

It was dangerous, she knew, leaving the shelter of the latest place she'd taken refuge. But she had little choice now. It was leave now, or give up all hope of living another day. She felt wretched, an animal crawling from hole to hole, dangerously close to fulfilling Saruman's parting wish for her. In a way, though, his words galvanized what remained of her will, driving her on, giving her strength to endure what she knew was necessary. She had to survive. The pain as she clambered out of the rocky hollow was intense at first, but after she'd moved across the rugged landscape a while, crawling so slowly she felt sometimes as though she was making no progress at all, the scabrous mass of her knees and palms numbed into a singular, burning sensation indistinguishable from the pain of the rest of her wounds. The thought of water, the necessity of it, drove her on despite everything, and when at last she caught the sound of faint trickling, distant, but not so far she couldn't tell in what direction it lay, she was convinced she'd imagined it.

Downhill. Water was always downhill. Billa tried to keep that in mind, but her mind was like a sieve. Hours seemed to pass, crawling almost as slowly as she was, reduced to the dull, aching throb in her knees and hands and head.

Because her head hurt so much, she kept her eyes closed, more often than not. Her hands were sensitive enough that she usually knew where the trees were before she ran into them. There were more of them today than there had been yesterday. She couldn't have made it more than a mile the previous day. Maybe a mile. Certainly not more.

She was in the middle of vaguely calculating distances when her forwardmost hand descended much farther than she thought it should have needed to before it found the ground again. Her other hand followed before she'd figured out what the problem was. By the time she stopped, the loose, wet earth was crumbling under her knees. The hobbit slid forward and started to tumble, rolling down the steep bank as the world whirled around her in a blur of pain that ended in an abrupt  _ splat . _

Thick, chilly mud oozed around her and soothed the fire in her shoulder, stomach and chest. The ringing in her ears pulsed in time to the throb of her head, and she lay still for a long few minutes before she felt up to trying to pry herself out of the wet clay.

The muck sucked hungrily at her limbs. Her arms and legs shook, her shoulder screamed in protest, but at last, Billa rolled free of the mud and onto smooth, rounded pebbles. Water splashed against her hand and dripped down her cheek. At first, she thought someone was putting a wet rag on her face. It was a lovely thought, but when she opened her eyes, all she saw was the broad leaves of a bush leaning over her.

Billa's heart sank. Rolling over carefully, she found the stream that was lapping at her hand, and she wormed forward on her belly to drink, too dazed to feel much more than thirst. Gratitude, she could manage later.

Despite the somewhat awkward means of receiving it, the drink was perhaps the most refreshing she'd ever had, and when at last she raised her curly head again, tangled hair dripping cold droplets, she sighed heavily, and clambered back onto the smooth pebbles of the bank. She stayed there a good while, hunched over herself, allowing the cool water to settle in her shrunken, parched stomach. It was strangely peaceful, this place, despite the perfect silence of the stream as it coursed along its stony channel. She'd rest here a while, she decided, and then perhaps move up the bank to see if she could find anything edible. Mushrooms, maybe, as before, and if she experienced a turn of extraordinary luck, a berry bush. She was just losing herself in thoughts of ripe, juicy blackberries when a strange rumble pulsed up through the soles of her feet where they rested on the stones. 

An earthquake? The rumble continued, subtle, barely detectable. Perhaps she was imagining things. Some twitch of the nerves due to her injuries, maybe. She shuffled her feet a little, wiggling her toes into the wet sand filling in the pebbles. Not imagining it, in any case. It was growing stronger, more persistent, like... the creaking of the floors in Laketown as water shifted around the piers.

That thought, terrifying as it was (bottomless icy water, ravenous to pull her in, make her disappear, chopping at the piers, at the floors, trying to get at her) made her focus on her surroundings again. It was a conscious effort. She was still under the bush. The mud to her right and a little nearer the water was churned up and mucky, but didn't have any of the obvious loose, shifty places that might indicate an earthquake. Neither, she noted absently, did it have an obvious hobbit shape in it. Her struggling must have obliterated the pattern. The tremors in the earth grew stronger, harder, more pronounced.

Billa extended her observations, fighting against her headache and the mild sense of panic that filled her at the impression of distance, of impending travel, of movement and pain. She couldn't see anything. Nor could she hear anything other than the slight ringing in her ears.

This last observation, the lack of sound, didn't strike her as overly odd until a large, heavy boot crashed into the pebbles barely an arm's length from where she sat. Billa froze, petrified. The boot was followed by a second, then a third, and a fourth. Orc boots. They jogged heavily along the stream, some on the bank, some splashing through the water. And though she could feel the ground shudder under their weight, feel the wind of their passing and smell their fetid stench, she could hear little more than the muted, distant thud of their footsteps.

_ Have I gone deaf? Are the traitor-Wizard's words going to be the last I ever hear? _

But the last of the orcs passed on without a second glance. How they didn't smell her was anyone's guess, but she thought it might have something to do with the water muddling her scent. Maybe they weren't after her at all. Saruman had obviously valued her very little; he'd discarded her without a second thought. Of course, he'd also thought she was deadly hurt and would never move again from the spot she'd come to rest. When the last of the rumblings faded into the distance, Billa released the breath she'd been holding, her chest heaving suddenly, freed from its terrified paralysis. Still, beyond that, she didn't dare move. Not for a score of minutes after that, and even then, she kept low in the stream bed and monitored her movements more carefully. No telling whether one of the brutes might have remained behind, skulking about in hopes she'd reveal herself. The hours slipped by.

Finally, trembling and weak, Billa found a small hollow in a stony shelf bordering the stream, and set her back to it, intending to spend the night if she couldn't rally her strength enough to continue. She hadn't given herself time to think about all that had happened. Not truly, anyway. Survival was all that had filled her consciousness, and beyond that which presented potential danger, she hadn't allowed herself to remember. The Ring. Gandalf's last stand. The Wizard's farewell. She hadn't yet had time, even, to mull over his final words to her.

And now, thinking about the Wizard, she felt a surge of hot grief filling her lungs, making it hard to breathe evenly. She didn't want to think about it. What sort of a place was this to mourn? How would she ever remember the things about Gandalf that really mattered? His bravery, his cunning, his determination. He had never asked anything for his own gain, manipulative old codger. He'd always been working toward the good of... somebody. Everybody.

Billa refused to lose herself to the grief she couldn't do justice to. Instead, she focused on her body, trying to evaluate the state of her injuries. After some consideration, she began to unwrap her shoulder. Cautiously, slowly, she stripped away the layers, unwinding the makeshift bandage. The last layer was the hardest, pulling up part of the lumpy, spiky scab as it came away from her skin. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears (proving that she hadn't  _ completely _ lost her hearing) as she looked down at the wound.

It was ragged and swollen, but seemed to weep only a little clear, odorless discharge. Nothing to indicate it was infected, despite the heat of pain and the way blood still triggered her gag reflex. In her belly, as though sensing her distress, the child fluttered against her skin. The feeling was still distant, more like a startled bird that a child, really. Still, it was comforting.

"It's alright," she murmured, now unsure if she heard her own voice inside her head or through her damaged ears. "It's alright, little one. Mommy's just taking a little breather. We'll get moving again in a little bit." She studied the bandage with a critical eye, realizing that her hands were shaking again. She would need to nap before she moved on. But washing her bandages was a good idea. 

The stream was colder than she remembered as she lowered the first tattered and crusty strip of cloth into it. She watched it wave amongst the reeds, growing steadily lighter in color as trails of pinkish-red and dirty brown snaked away along the current. The fabric, when cleaner, bore a faint pattern that matched her now thoroughly destroyed shirt, and Billa almost smiled at the thought.

Poor Dori. He'd have been horrified to see his handiwork so shredded and mangled.

How she wished she were back in Rivendell. Anywhere civilized, really. The longing was so strong, it nearly ached in her chest. It seemed simple, selfish even. But all she could find herself wishing for at the moment was a warm bed, a hot meal, and Thorin assuring her she was safe.

She wrung out the strip and laid it over the smooth stones, hoping it would dry quickly. The sun was sparse through the trees, but there were a few patches glittering on the bank. Once she'd done the same with all her bandages, she decided to venture a peek over the ledge. Carefully, she crawled up the step-like rocks near her sheltering place, being mindful of not upsetting any loose shale, since it seemed likely she'd miscalculate how much noise she was making. At last, she had a clear view. The trees were scattered, clumped in groups of three or four, and around them were bushes of various types, full and glossy-leaved. Her appearance, however unobtrusive, still managed to upset a large bird with black and white striped feathers. It exploded silently out of the tree limbs above, flurrying off, no doubt indignantly voicing its displeasure. Billa cringed, ducking down again. It was probably unnecessary, but she felt she couldn't be too cautious after her near-fatal mishap earlier in the day.

Nothing happened. No one sprang out of the bushes to attack her, and nothing else seemed to notice her presence.

_ Now wouldn't that be a handy ability? To know whenever anyone was noticing you. _

Billa considered it a minute, entirely distracted from whatever it was she'd been doing, and decided that it would actually be somewhat irritating. It would be like the foolish young tween who'd wished that her berry vines would prosper, and had been overrun by them and trapped in her house until her family could cut her out. Never mess with magic, that was what Hamwise had always said. She was beginning to think that he had been right.

Coming back to herself, Billa tried to focus on the bushes ahead of her, but couldn't seem to make sense of them. There were too many shadows, too much space. With a shiver, she lowered herself back down to her little cave and her drying bandages.

_ Find us quickly, Thorin. The Wild is no place for an injured hobbit. _

An hour or two passed in an exhausted blink. She woke with a start, noting at once that the lights and shadows had all changed. The shade had deepened beneath the trees above, and Billa shivered a little with cold. The bandages were still damp, but she bound them back on anyway, feeling vaguely if she left them off any longer, she might burst through her scabs. It might have been silly, but it comforted her nonetheless to have them; she knew they'd at least keep her wounds cleaner.

Huddling into the threadbare wool lining of her familiar blue coat, a coat that was crusty with dried blood - hers and Gandalf's - she pressed herself against the wall and sighed.

"Well," she whispered, still not sure whether she was hearing her voice or merely her memory of it, "it looks like I've little choice. Press on, or wait here to die."

With a renewed will, she crawled out of the cave, moving again up the bank. If the orcs were still lurking about, she hoped the clatter of a few stones scraping against each other would go unnoticed. 

* * *

Thorin flicked dark blood from the tip of his sword, thinking absently to himself that he'd probably killed more enemies with an elvish blade than with dwarf-made weapons. Number of enemies weighed the scales, rather than amount of time he'd carried the weapons in question.

"Who was on lookout?" He turned to what remained of the camp, bedrolls and blankets scattered haphazardly between him and the low, sloping bank of the murky pond that protected their western flank. Gimli slowly raised his hand, looking somewhat sheepish.

"Why didn't you sound the alarm?" Thorin's voice wasn't any harsher than usual, but his usual tone was already dangerously close to a growl. The dwarrow looked down at his boots, clearly not wanting to answer. To his credit, the red-haired youngling did answer, and clearly enough that all could hear his shame.

"Ah fell asleep, sir."

Thorin felt a shudder of anger pass through him. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together briefly. Then, as seemed to happen more and more often since Gandalf's disappearance, the anger drained from him like ice water.

"It ain't 'is fault, Thorin," said Glóin with a strained, confrontational tone. "We've not 'ad a full night's sleep in weeks!"

Thorin strove to moderate himself before replying, tempering the answer all too ready to match Glóin's. Exhaustion and discouragement were taking their toll; it was easy to blame the rigors of the journey on one's companions.

"See that it doesn't happen again." Thorin nudged the dead orc at his feet, glancing about to see that the others remained unmoving. An orc patrol coming on them unawares could have ended very, very badly, but as it was, no one had been hurt - not seriously, anyway. These brutes seemed even less well-trained than the last bunch. As though they'd never fought a day in their pathetic lives.

The dwarf king might've scolded, might've used the incident as a teaching moment. As it was, he knew the importance of cohesion. Of completing the mission. He had to keep his little band together just a while longer. There was only so much they could take.

"Clean up this mess, and douse the fire. We'll," he acknowledged a weary sigh from Glóin, "move the camp a ways north and finish out the night."

The dwarves shuffled and grumbled and gathered their things. Nikû and Bofur silently shifted bodies, their hands quickly covered in thick black ooze. They rejoined the others, scrubbing their hands clean on a little patch of tough grass before helping Gimli with the last of the tack. They led the horses rather than riding them, trudging through the cool darkness without talking, and Thorin contrasted this with the cheerful nights and nervous jokes of the time before.... Before Dain, before Smaug, before... Billa.... He shook the thought away.

"I know you're doing your best." Her voice was so low, he almost didn't hear it, but he jumped at the sound. Nikû walked beside him, holding the long, limply dangling reins of two horses in one of her fists. "What will you do, if they break?"

Her voice was soft, but Thorin still checked to see if the others had overheard. They hadn't. That, or they had the good sense to pretend so. His first impulse, beyond that, was toward offense. What right did she have to involve herself in problems that belonged to him alone? Was she trying to suggest he was... incompetent? 

"Then I'll go on alone. I would have, even from the beginning." 

"But traveling alone through the wilds..." Nikû kept her tone respectful, despite the doubtful nature of her words. "...you'd have been little more than a target. An unprotected one." 

Thorin scoffed. "If I'm the only one I can rely on, what choice would I have had? I certainly wouldn't have remained amongst the elves."

"We never expected you to stay," murmured another voice, and Thorin bit his tongue to keep from growling a curse. The two elves that had stayed, the female scout and a brown-haired male whose name he'd not bothered to remember, were as often gone as not. He remembered now that they had been fighting near Nikû, as silent as moonlight.

Thorin felt his anger flare again and turned his head slightly to scowl over his shoulder at the intruders. He didn't say anything, though. Even in the dark, he could see the sadness in the female's face, the lines around her deep-set eyes.

"Will you wait for them, for us?" pressed Nikû gently. "We are loyal, all of us, but we cannot go on indefinitely. We need to hunt. To rest."

It was so easy to imagine her using this persuasive tone with Dís.

Thorin shot another look at the elves. He found it incredibly annoying that they'd involved themselves in the conversation, and by extension, everyone else. Pride tempted him to simply leave them, to mount up and ride off without another word, but he knew his chances of defeating Saruman were greatly diminished without allies. That meant some amount of compromise was in order, however much he disliked it. He nodded slowly. "Very well. You'll have the rest of the night to sleep, and an hour or so of daylight to hunt and see to your needs. We can spare no more than that."

Nikû looked like she might have reached for him. Touched him. He'd seen her do just that for his sister on an occasion or two. Thorin's heart twisted slightly. His sister. There was another thing he didn't want to think about.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." He heard Nikû murmur the words. If the elves said anything else, he didn't hear them.

The Company settled again, a mile and a half from their old camp site. Glóin glanced at Thorin, lifting his flint slightly.

Thorin shook his head. "Can't chance it." The ginger's face fell. "Aye." After an orc attack doubtless precipitated by the sight of their campfire, building another a relatively short distance away made little sense. 

"You need sleep, too, Uncle." Fíli's voice rose at Thorin's back, and the dwarf turned to see his nephew spreading a bedroll. His. "A few more hours'll do you some good." While Thorin pondered the implications of that statement, Fíli settled on a rotted stump close by. "I'll keep watch this time. Won't be able to sleep anyway after... all that."

Thorin considered protesting, but thought that of his remaining companions, Fíli was probably the one he'd trust the most. With a sigh, he shook his head at his nephew and moved to pass him, setting a heavy hand on his shoulder as he went by. Eventually, he would break under the weight he carried, and he hated to think of passing this burden to the dwarrow. It was all too easy to look at the blond and see him toddling after his mother, chubby face creased in concentration as he tried to fit his two silver hoops back together again. Thorin realized he was still standing beside Fíli with a hand on his shoulder when the blond spoke.

"Please, Uncle. You're tired. Go rest."

Thorin murmured assent, moving to the bedroll his nephew had set out. Fíli was right. He'd tried forgoing sleep altogether before, and it seldom ended well. If he was to face a Wizard, and Mahal knew what else in the process, he'd need to have the strength of mind and body to sustain him until the end. He'd scarcely lain down, rolled onto his side, and shut his eyes before he was awake again. Shards of bright sunlight streamed through gaps in the trees, the camp was in the process of being struck, and Fíli, Nikû, and the two elves were missing.

Blinking against the daylight, Thorin sat up, ashamed of his own weakness. To have slept so long undisturbed, and still wake up feeling as though he hadn't slept at all.... Or perhaps he simply hadn't slept well. They came back quickly, the memories, and he worked to shut them out. It was a dream, that's all. Vivid, yes, but untrue. None of it was true. He hadn't... but he didn't want to think about it.

"They're hunting?" He caught Bofur's eye, and the hatted dwarf nodded.

"Left about an hour ago. Wit' any luck, they'll bring back more 'an a bird."

Thorin absently nodded his agreement, unable to stay focused on that topic. Unable to stay focused on  _ anything _ _._ The dream invaded every corner of his mind, in spite of his best efforts to banish it. After a moment of vain struggling, he shook his head and moved toward the trees.

"Oy, if yer headin' out, d'ye t'ink ye could refill these?" Bofur lifted three obviously empty canteens, and Thorin took them, a vague gratitude sweeping through him at the excuse to move farther off than he'd first intended.

Empty containers bumped and clattered against his hip while he walked, head bowed. Fíli had been right. These dwarves needed their rest. But how could he justify  _ resting _ when Billa's killer was still at large? In his chest, something twisted painfully.

He could hear a stream nearby, babbling along in its gentle, murmuring cadence. It was good to have a source of water nearby; not only would it mask the noises of the hunters, but it would be likely to attract game. Thorin found the stream quickly enough, and uncorked the first canteen, kneeling down in the soft, mossy earth on the bank. As water shimmered into the narrow mouth of the canteen, Thorin glanced up, scanning the far bank for any signs of movement. Something he'd neglected to do beforehand, in his distracted state. Nothing. Just the rustle of the morning breeze in the ferns, and the whispers of the leaves.

There was a small part of Thorin that wouldn't have been surprised if Billa had suddenly popped out of the trees, cranky and scolding, but very much alive. It was the part, he reasoned, that had expected to see his father come walking in the door in Ered Luin, months and years after he'd vanished. The part that simply couldn't accept the reality of the loss.

"No more real than that dream," he mused aloud, corking the first canteen and brushing it clear of water droplets with his sleeve. "I never threw you off the wall. Wasn't how it happened. You were there, but...." He trailed off, lowering his gaze to the water. "It wasn't you I hurt that day.”

The memory of Fíli's bleeding and brutalized face sent a familiar chill down his spine. He'd become a monster, somehow. Despite all attempts at resistance, at caution, the Arkenstone had proved too insidious.

Thorin shook his head slightly, no longer seeing the babbling stream. "I was wrong, Billa. I was... corrupted." The dream mingled freely with the memories, and it was hard for a moment to remember which was true. The scars, the burns, the fear in her face. It was hard to see past it.

"My sword is wet with your blood. What kind of a dwarf am I, that I hurt you so much?"

Thorin sighed, the canteen dropping from his fingers. He scarcely noticed it as it sploshed onto the mossy bank. "You'd have been better off if you stayed in the Shire. I shouldn't have..." He trailed off again, finding it difficult to finish his sentence in a way that felt at all truthful. To have never known Billa beyond that uptight, overwhelmed halfling squeaking about her dishes, to have never had any idea what she would come to mean to him... No. He could never honestly wish that. 

Later, he couldn't have said what it was that made him look up. A sound, a feeling, a change in the atmosphere. For one wild moment, the figure in the bushes opposite him took on the shape of his burglar, and his heart seized with a joy so great it was painful. Then he blinked, clearing his eyes of tears, and saw the she-elf scout, fair hair obscuring half her face.

She looked so sad, so... devastated, that he couldn't summon the appropriate amount of betrayal. Oh, he certainly wasn't happy, but his grief was too strong to give way to anger so easily.

Demanding to know just what she was doing would be futile. Obviously, she'd heard his distraught-sounding pleas to Billa and - curse the keen ears of elves - come to see what was the matter.

"This isn't your business," he said tightly, scooping up the now half-empty canteen. "You've no right to intrude." That's exactly what it felt like. An intrusion on his private grief. Besides, no one was supposed to see him like this.

The elf blinked at him silently, but even as she rocked her weight back, as though preparing to step away, she hesitated. She looked distinctly like she wanted to say something, but couldn't find the right words. In the end, thankfully, the she-elf said nothing, fading back into the undergrowth without a word.

Thorin sighed and crouched to refill the canteen he'd dropped. The mood had been broken, and now the piercing agony of guilt and grief was beginning to lose its sharp edges. A very Billa-ish voice near the back of his mind insisted in an irritating 'I told you so' tone that he should be grateful to the she-elf for having the respect not to say anything.

Thorin gritted his teeth in frustration. He felt he was sinking slowly beneath the weight. He couldn't lose himself to all this, not now. He had to maintain control at all costs, or their cause was lost.

Turning away from the stream, he mentally prepared himself for the looks of concern and assessment that surely awaited him. The she-elf would tell her partner, at the very least, and perhaps even share what she'd witnessed with the rest. When he reached the others, though, there was no sign of anything amiss. Bofur sat near the saddled and laden horses, silently mending a sock. Gimli and Glóin had finished cleaning and sharpening their weapons, and were tightening the straps of their various scabbards and sheaths. Natural, everyday preparations.

Bofur looked up finally, offering a faint smile and nod. "Hour's almost up. They should be comin' back right quick."

As if on cue, a distant, cheerful whistle became audible. The unrecognizable tune had a solid beat, as though for mining or marching, and Thorin guessed it was Fíli, celebrating a good hunt. Passing the canteens to Bofur, the dwarf king moved toward the edge of the campsite, intending to catch the elf and warn her to keep her mouth shut. But when the hunting party came into view, not a one of them looked at all concerned or even unsettled. Not even the she-elf.

"Uncle! Luck is with us again! Look at this!" Grinning broadly, Fíli lifted what looked like an abnormally large pheasant, or maybe a small turkey. From the belts of the others, he saw a brace of small rabbits, two more birds, and three glistening silver fish, each as long as his forearm. The hunting prowess of elves was not exaggerated, then.

Thorin nodded, a bit puzzled. So the elf hadn't said anything. Yet.

"Good," he said quickly. "Very good. Prepare them. We have far to ride today."   
All was done with a practiced hand, the bird plucked, the rabbits dressed, the fish gutted and cleaned. Dangling them from their saddles, the group mounted up once more and were on their way.

Thorin took care to moderate his pace this time, not desiring a repeat of yesterday's criticism. A steady, cautious speed would ultimately serve them better than a reckless, swift one. He tried to convince himself it wasn't mostly a demonstration of his competency and mental soundness, some precaution against a future confrontation in which the she-elf could easily add fuel to embers he was lulling back to sleep. He had little reason to distrust her, or to think her capable of blackmail, but all the same - it didn't seem fit to presume where elves were concerned.

The hours passed in the monotonous, rhythmic hoofbeats of the horses. Orcs had grown scarce in the last couple days, which made Thorin suspicious that the beasts were hanging about Rivendell in particular. Saruman's doing, likely, but he couldn't understand  _ why _ _._ To distract Elrond? To lend credence to his own lies? Or maybe he was wrong about the Wizard's involvement.

He tried not to dwell on it, but when one's day consisted of alternately sitting on a horse and leading it, there wasn't really a lot to occupy one's mind.

It wasn't until they were settling in for lunch (Fíli insisted the fish wouldn't be nearly as good if they waited until evening to cook them, and Thorin wasn't in the mood to further damage the group's morale) that anything changed. Thorin stood at the lip of the dell, standing guard and trying not to think about Billa or the remaining scraps of his dream. The soft sound of soft footsteps approaching from behind alerted him to the elf's presence, and Thorin turned. It was the male elf. His expression seemed serious, thin face framed by brown hair that didn't have any right to be as glossy as it was.

"Oakenshield."

The dwarf felt a chill. Had the she-elf finally told? Did they think him weak? Incapable of leading?

"Yes?" His voice was low, but satisfyingly steady.

"I think one of your kin... requires attention." The elf was obviously trying to be delicate. He looked over his shoulder and nodded slightly toward the horses. "The one with the hat. He seems... unstable." 

The words didn't make sense at first, as Thorin tried to frame them in the context he'd been expecting - this wasn't an accusation of incompetence. After a moment, he nodded slightly and moved his hand to indicate the little hillock he was standing on.

"Keep watch," he murmured, and moved down into the dell to see what was going on with Bofur. Emotional things had never been his strong point, whether the emotions were his own or someone else's.

Separated from the rest of the camp by the horses, who had been unsaddled and allowed to graze while the fish cooked, Bofur sat hunched on a mossy rock, muttering to himself. Thorin approached cautiously, uncertain what to expect. Bofur looked up before Thorin could think of anything to say, and the expression that crossed his tired face was one of intense frustration.

"What? Ye come to tell me I've gotta control mysel', is that it?"

Thorin glanced at Fíli, who shrugged, as though he hadn't the faintest what was going on. He leaned toward the miner. "What's the matter?" His tone was gentle, not demanding or accusatory. 

Bofur squinted, shaking his head. "Dunno. Just... doesn' make much sense, does it? Traipsin' into some Wizard's fortress, t'inkin' we'll even have a chance when he made short work o' Gandalf."

The miner's voice was thick with too many emotions to name. He looked into Thorin's face, seeming torn between anger and pleading. "I followed ye from th' Blue Mountains ta Erebor an' back, but what's the point? Ye don't know where we're goin' any more than I do! Y're jus'... tryin' te make the pain stop. Y're not the only one as lost someone ye love."

Thorin tensed slightly. Bofur's words struck a deep, painful chord, and he could feel the eyes and ears of the whole group as surely as if they'd been his own. When Bofur lowered his head, twisting his hat between his hands, Thorin risked a glance over his shoulder. Behind Fíli stood the elves. The female was watching him, but she made no move to speak.

After a handful of beats, Thorin swallowed, then spoke. "All we can do, Bofur, is the best we know how. Gandalf was our friend and ally. He never harmed a living thing, when he could avoid it. The sort of man that would cut Gandalf down in cold blood is not the sort that should be left alive." Another pause, and he straightened. "You're right. I do want the pain to stop. But avenging my loss won't do that. It never has. All we can do is... to keep moving. None of the dead would wish us to stop living."

Bofur seemed to consider these words a moment, then with a small sigh, nodded. "Ye're right. I should'na let m' doubts get the best'a me." 

Thorin couldn't imagine what had happened to make him go off like he had, but he'd carried on so long without the slightest complaint that Thorin should've known it would only be a matter of time before he snapped. 

Bofur ceased wringing the hat, punching it back into shape and settling it back on his head, like some symbolic resumption of the mission. Thorin extended a hand, and Bofur took it with a nod of gratitude. 

"Wasted enough time already, I have," he said, shame apparent in his tone. "Gimme somethin' t'do, an' I'll be right as rain in a nip."

Thorin set him to taking the horses, two by two, to the nearest stream, and letting them drink, then sent Nikû with him, to make sure he wasn't ambushed. And after all of that had been settled, he noticed the she-elf trying to catch his eye. She tipped her head slightly, indicating she wanted to speak with him alone.

Was this her plan, then? Wait until his Company was completely demoralized and then use his own weakness against him? Thorin set his jaw, but nodded to the elf. He led the way to a section of the dell the Company wasn't using, because there was a thick layer of ivy covering everything. He stood with glossy green leaves about his knees and folded his arms, waiting for the she-elf to speak her piece.

For a moment she was silent, then she crouched, lithe as a cat and now slightly below him. He remembered Tauriel doing much the same in Laketown. It unnerved him just as much now as it had then.

"Oakenshield," she began softly, "are you certain marching on Isengard will not end in all our deaths?" A tone of 'is this wise?' seemed to flow through her words, but she was gentle, not at all angry or accusatory.

"No, I'm not. But if he was willing to kill Gandalf and a defenseless hobbit, who would be next? Elrond?" His words came a little more defensively than he'd meant them to, and the she-elf flinched, clearly appalled by the idea that anyone would kill her sovereign lord.

"But would it not make more sense to return to Rivendell to seek my lord's counsel first? Surely when he hears news of Saruman's betrayal, he will grant his aid."

Thorin shook his head. "He has his own enemies to deal with for now. By the time all was made ready, the Wizard would doubtless have concocted some new scheme. Maybe he has spies in Rivendell already."

The she-elf blanched at the thought, but said nothing.

"Where we now stand," Thorin met her gaze earnestly, "we have speed and stealth, or we have nothing." He wondered a moment who he was trying to convince more - her... or himself. 

Anxious silence settled between them for the space of a heartbeat, maybe two, then the elf sighed, bowing her head slightly.

"I believe you may be right, Oakenshield, and that frightens me."

The idea of an elf being frightened was so incongruous, Thorin couldn't wrap his mind around it at first. Dark locks of hair fell into his eyes as he shook his head, frowning slightly as he looked down at the elf.

"I don't understand," he murmured. "You could have taken control, exposed me... had your way. Why didn't you?"

The she-elf regarded him with some surprise. "Why would I have? This is not my quest."

Had she never intended to betray him? There were dwarves, even in his own Company, that he wouldn't have trusted to keep what she had seen to themselves, but here was this elf who owed him no allegiance, to whom the idea of taking charge of what she believed was a misled and doomed venture was completely foreign. It didn't seem believable.

"You think this is a fool's errand." He observed her face closely, looking for the slightest indication that he was right in his suspicions. The elf looked thoughtful, her gaze dropping to the ivy below them.

"Not a fool's errand," she replied at length. "But I do think we are too small a force to have more than a slight chance at success, should we confront the White Wizard."

"Surprise can be the downfall of even the strongest foe," Thorin murmured, and the elf nodded her agreement. Another short pause followed. Each silence seemed more comfortable than the last. At length, Thorin spoke again. "Your loyalty is... appreciated. I'm not accustomed to seeing it in aught other than my own kin. So... thank you."

She studied him a moment, smiling faintly. "I will be your ally as long as you fight for what is true," she murmured.

Thorin nodded, moving to pass her. He was surprised to feel her hand on his shoulder, gentle, but firm.

"I, too, have lost someone dear, Oakenshield. I know it is not an easy thing to bear and still fulfill one's duty as is necessary." Her voice had sunk to a low, confidential tone - even more so than it had already been. Thorin got the sense she didn't often speak about this loss she'd sustained.

"What... was your duty?" Thorin felt that asking who she had lost was too personal, but the elf seemed to hear the unspoken question.

"I was new to the scouts of Imladris when my mother died. It was... difficult to focus on anything, after that." She gave him a sad smile. "I imagine it would be just as difficult for you."

Thorin disliked the turn the conversation was taking. It wasn't one he wanted to have. Wasn't her business what he might or might not be feeling, even if he no longer had cause to believe she'd betray his confidence. His features hardened.

"I've lost nearly all my kin. Mother. Father. Brother. Countless others. Now my One." His voice wavered slightly, but he countered it by rushing through the rest of what he had to say. "It's simply the way of things, elf, and the sooner we both come to terms with that, the better."

"Faervel."

"What?"

The she-elf blinked placidly. "My name."

"Fine." Thorin turned away again and moved off, not looking back to see if she followed. The world ahead glistened and blurred and just as suddenly grew clear again. No. He couldn't talk about all that now.

* * *

Billa staggered and fell for the fifth time in... a period of time. Time had lost meaning except for light or dark, day or night, safe or full of enemies. She'd managed at last to get to her feet that morning, but her ability to keep her feet had gradually declined.

The water was soaking into her right sleeve, icy and invasive. Pulling her arm out of the water, the halfling covered her face with her dry sleeve and tried to force the world to hold still. She felt... ill. More colorful terms might have suited better, but she was a gentlehobbit. Still, she had to keep moving, had to keep going. Beginning to shiver violently, Billa rolled over and pushed herself unsteadily to her hands and knees.

Her stomach twisted violently, and she pressed her hand firmly over her mouth, focusing on breathing through her nose. "Rotten berries," she muttered into her fingers. Or maybe it had been the mushrooms? She'd thought they were common ones, much like those she'd often hunted in the Shire. She wasn't sure how it was possible to feel a simultaneous return of strength and a peculiar sleepiness. But she couldn't contemplate that for long. Something far more confusing distracted her. The forest canopy above. 

The trees were swaying back and forth, flexing so much she wasn't sure how they didn't break in half. Wasn't much wind that she could tell. Not that her hearing had returned to offer veracity to the silence. But when she looked at the water, it, too, seemed to be shifting, ripples and rivulets skittering back and forth along the mirror-bright surface. 

_ Oh no _ _._ She had to keep going. That was all she knew now. Had to keep going, or it would be too late. Too late for what, she couldn't have said.

Lacking proper reasons didn't stop her from fleeing from this unknown danger. On hands and knees, because she didn't trust her feet, the halfling scrambled along the gravel stream bed, occasionally finding herself up to her swollen belly in water before she realized which direction she'd gone.

_ This won't do. This won't do at all. I'm sure I'm making too much noise . _

It didn't take much thought. Even as wretched as she felt, Billa knew she wouldn't stand a chance if she didn't keep moving. Small creatures skittered past her in fear as she climbed the steep, muddy bank out of the stream's tiny gorge. Squirrels and mice, tiny porcelain chipmunks and animated sugar tongs. Tongs from Bree, looked like. With the little rose on either side.

She reached the level above the stream and found herself in a world of giant trees and dark, craggy rock formations. Bewildered, she hesitated a moment, her stomach rolling uncomfortably as the trees here began to sway, and even the rocks quivered. Billa looked up, and had to stifle a scream.

Spiders. Giant, ugly, hairy spiders. Some carried webby, dwarf-shaped bundles. Others were ridden by slimy-looking black orcs with sharp teeth and glowing yellow eyes.

They had them. They had the dwarves! And Thorin, most likely. Unless they'd killed him already. She couldn't stomach that thought; it seemed to quite literally twist her insides into knots. Despite her scream, the spiders didn't seem to have noticed her. Maybe she still had a chance. Ducking behind the nearest tree, she peeked out at them again. There were some in the branches above, and more on the ground now. The orcs were grunting in Black Speech, and the spiders were gurgling back at them. The bundles squirmed soundlessly, but that renewed Billa's hopes. They were still alive. 

_ You don't have the Ring this time _ _,_ a voice that sounded remarkably like Thorin's pointed out.

_ You're not here. Don't pretend to be _ _,_ she hissed at him. 

_ Don't do this, Billa. There has to be a better way _ _._ The world shifted before her eyes, making it difficult to make sense of much of anything. She relied on vague impressions and blurs of sound and color, watching the dark smudges that were certain death skitter about at the bases of the trees. 

_ Well, I'm not about to leave my friends to be spider-food. Even if I only end up joining them .  _

_ Billa _ _,_ don't.  _ Please .  _

_ Begging never suited you _ _,_ she remarked drily.  _ If you want to help, keep out of the way. I'm going to save you. Even if it kills me . _

She felt a stab of muted terror at the thought of dying to save her little family, but she didn't think it was hers. In any case, it was easy to push aside. Grasping a crooked branch and hefting it, she pushed herself slowly to her feet. The world still reeled drunkenly about her, but her feet seemed marginally more steady than before.

_ Please, Billa! _

_ Shut up, Thorin. I'm trying to concentrate. _

_ You don't have to do this . _

The hobbit blocked him out and took a deep breath. Her eyes refused to focus properly, but she could see them. A dark shape coming closer, looming like a horse. She lunged forward, striking out with all her might. The branch collided solidly with something hard, and she thought she could hear muffled, pained shrieking. The knife she drew from her belt, the one that had nearly killed her, seemed to waver and glow in her hand. Sting! She had thought she'd never see it again. With a shout of fury (at least, she thought she was shouting,) she lunged past the first of her foes, still staggering from her first blow, and stabbed out with her knife, aiming for where the many eyes were surely gleaming madly in the half-light.

The ground pitched under her feet and nausea followed as she fell. Billa struck the ground hard, and suddenly there were arms about her. Strong arms. She wriggled and thrashed. Something popped faintly and her ears were abruptly drowning in a roar of sound, too loud and too sudden for understanding. Her own screams sounded demented, but she could hear names amid the snarling. Thorin. Fíli. Kíli. Bombur. Billa fought and writhed, but it didn't feel like her struggles were making any difference against the strong arms.

_ I'm sorry, Thorin. I did my best . _

* * *

Dreaming was easy. She felt peaceful, somehow. Here, in this world of warm, comfortable darkness, she was safe. Now that she considered it, "warm and comfortable" was never how she would've described being captured by anything, let alone orcs. She was dead, then. That was all there was to it. She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't know what she would see when she did, and that frightened her. She had no frame of reference for being dead. Something like voices swam about her ears, vague and indistinct, as though she were hearing them from deep under water. 

The more she listened, though, the more she found she could understand them. Bits and pieces, anyway. A word here and there. 

"...waking... don't understand... antidote... child...." Child. They were talking about her, then. Maybe they were discussing how she'd died. 

She felt a stab of regret. Her baby would have died with her. Even if there had been someone skilled enough to take the child from her womb, it would have been too soon, too early for the baby to live.

_ I'm sorry, Thorin. I did try my best _ _._ The spiders, the orcs.... But if she had been captured and killed, what were these voices now? No orc voices, to be sure, but smooth, light voices, accented with hints of Elvish. Had her spirit already traveled from her place of death, then? Billa tried to listen more closely. The voices became clearer, though no louder.

"... everything I can. The rest is up to Miss Baggins."

"You don't understand," hissed a second voice, sounding strained, rougher than the first. "If he loses her, Uncle Thorin might not want to... to keep going. There has to be something else we can do."

She recognized the second voice, even before it mentioned Thorin. Kíli. Why was Kíli here? What did he mean? Everything was very scattered and muddled, like a recipe book with half the directions blotted out. 

"Lord Elrond has not returned yet, Master Kíli. But I wouldn't expect this latest raid to last more than another day. If she can hold on that long-" 

"She has to!" Kíli seemed passionate to the point of tears, which couldn't help but touch Billa. She hadn't known how deeply he cared for her. 

The elven voice sighed. "I will... search the tomes in my lord's library. There may yet be found answers beyond my own skill." 

"Good. You can start now, unless you've got something more important to do." 

"And Miss Baggins?" 

"I'll stay with her."

Silence fell. Billa might have tried to puzzle out the meaning of all this, except her mind seemed to be spinning. Thoughts seemed to slide this way and that, not staying still long enough for her to understand them.

Then a warm, rough hand closed around her fingers, chafing them gently. The halfling nearly jumped out of her skin with surprise. That did  _ not _ feel dead. If her outward reactions were as obvious as they felt, then Kíli was blind as a mole.

Now more frightened and confused than ever, Billa tried to open her eyes. They felt swollen and heavy, but at length, she managed to separate the lids sufficiently to squint. She could see the hunched figure beside her, outline blurred, dark hair obscuring his face.

Poor Kíli. He looked so distraught. She wanted to cheer him up, but speech currently seemed beyond her capacity. She felt... paralysed, somehow. The most she could coax from her fingers was a faint squeeze, and it required every ounce of her strength and concentration. She wasn't even sure if he'd felt it, that slight bit of pressure, that signal secret and quiet as a tear in the rain. 

_ I'm here, Kíli. I'll hold on as long as I must _ _._


	26. Dís; Private Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Queen takes more risks than are strictly wise, and tries to bite off more than she can chew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Last month's chapter yesterday. This month's chapter today.   
> I _am_ very sorry about the delay. As some of you might be aware, my life sort of blew up last month, when the company I work for released a new product and started demanding much more overtime than I'm accustomed to working. Things have calmed down somewhat, and Loki (New Zealand is so far away... *sigh*) seems to be settling into the rhythm of work and school as well, so we're puttering along toward the long-awaited climax of our BagginShield epic. 
> 
> Without further ado, chapter 26! Enjoy.

Dís frowned into the table, listening to the subdued banter of the five or so dwarves at the table. Louder was the silence of Dain. He'd not said a word throughout the meal, and seemed so withdrawn into himself, Dís wasn't sure whether he was even aware of aught but his own thoughts. The motions of his eating and drinking seemed automatic, somehow, as though he were detached from them. 

One of their dinner companions - an Iron Hills noble, like his comrades - chuckled around a mouthful of bread. "You should've seen the commotion in the mines today. Caught that firebrand Josrin stirring the pot again. Going on, he was, about the 'hardship' the miners have faced of late, before dawn to well into the night with few breaks in between. Called Your Lordship a pretty name or two." He laughed. "We soon set him right." 

"What did you do to him?" Dís asked, breaking her long silence. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, but as queen, the mistreatment of her subjects was ever close to her heart. These... "taskmasters" Dain had set over the workers were beginning to cross the bounds of decency as far as she was concerned. The dwarf looked to Dain, as though for permission, and when he received not so much as a blink, shook his head. 

"Ah. Not good talk for dinner, my Queen. Suffice it to say, he got what was coming to him." The others chuckled in a manner of humor Dís didn't at all like. She straightened in her seat, her features hardening to stone. 

"Do you think me so delicate as to be put off from my meal by such news? I am your queen, and _I_ will decide what is or isn't fit for my ears."

A tense, awkward silence descended over the table as the nobles exchanged looks, then glanced at their king, who reacted no more now than he had before. Dís received the distinct impression that these dwarves knew perfectly well that their talk would draw out her temper, and had been counting on the king's support to protect them. Dain, however, was clearly in no mood to defend his lackies.

"Well?" Dís arched one braided eyebrow, and the nobleman's gaze shifted away from hers.

"The miner Josrin was found guilty of insubordination, and received fifty lashes for his treasonous talk."

Dís drew in a sharp breath. "Fifty? And you considered that fair recompense for a bit of questioning? For empty blustering?" The queen took pains to calm herself. The dagger-edge of her tone seemed finally to have pulled Dain from his thoughts, and he shook his head slowly. 

"The mines are the foundation of this kingdom. A steady flow of gold and gems is our only safety and security. Unrest amongst the miners would disrupt that." 

"But surely justice is equally the foundation of Erebor," Dís said pointedly. "Gold is not worth more than the lives of our people, or their happiness."

Dain turned his gaze on her, hooded and piercing. It felt heavy, that gaze, and Dís thought a lesser dwarf might have wilted under the weight of it.

"I will not put the happiness of a few miners above the welfare of an entire kingdom. Erebor deserves better than that."

Dís hesitated. She knew thin ice when she saw it, but this... wasn't like him. He might've been hard before. Strict. But to put wealth above the lives of his subjects - it went against everything she'd thought of him prior. Well, she'd pledged to advise him when she disagreed with his actions, and she would not rescind on that pledge now. Not when it might still make a difference. 

"My King, perhaps a gentle hand would serve your purposes better than an iron fist. A single dwarf idly complaining is hardly cause for threat to life and limb." 

At this, one of the nobles politely cleared his throat. "Beg pardon, Your Highness, but he's hardly the first we've had to deal with."

Dís noticed the sudden death glare Dain directed at the speaker, though it was furtive and brief. The noble lowered his head penitently, and didn't speak again. So there was more to this story. Much more. 

"Why was I not told there was... dissent in the mines?" Her gaze darted from the noble back to Dain. "Truly? You'd let me pass my days in my chambers harping, or at the forge working, as if there was no unrest in the kingdom?"

"This is not the business of queens." Dain's voice was soft, but dangerously brittle. "Tend to your own interests, my lady. I ask nothing more of you."

Dís felt a chill, though she thought it might have been more than half anger. "I told you once before that I would not be a token wife, to be paraded out at special occasions and locked up otherwise." If he would not see her as his equal willingly, then she would see it done other ways.

She was ashamed that she had wasted so much time. She had not been as idle as Dain might believe, but she had been confident in the peace that had settled over the Mountain with the conclusion of their marriage. Dain had not forced her to share his quarters, and they had passed several pleasant afternoons together, after the day's work had been seen to.

That had changed, of course, in the past few weeks. With more and more time to herself, Dís had taken to making friends among the servants, using her new bodyguard to her advantage.

Clearly, her network of loyal gossips was incomplete, otherwise she would have heard about this outspoken Josrin before he'd been whipped to within an inch of his life. Dís stood, the scrape of her chair echoing ominously in the silent chamber.

Dain seemed to relent a little, giving a faint nod. In any case, he neither corrected her, nor tried to prevent her leaving. Dís almost wished he would have. She had a feeling he would soon forget all about this confrontation, being altogether occupied these days with his own activities and demanding schedule, such that mealtime conversation and quiet afternoons had become all but a memory of late. 

This concerned her, this change. She would have to get to the bottom of it, somehow, and from there decide on a course of action. For now, she had other things to take care of. 

Ensuring no one followed, she went straightaway to the healer's ward, where Josrin had doubtless been taken after punishment was meted out. After a quiet exchange with the healer on duty, one she knew had accompanied her brother and sons on the Quest, she was directed to a cot some distance from the others, where the prone form of a dwarf was visible beneath dark, wool blankets. 

"He's in a fine way, Highness," the healer, Óin, said softly, shaking his head with concern. "I'd be surprised if he lasted the night."

Dís lifted the corner of the blanket, and saw not one, but five angry lash marks that extended from his back onto his shoulder. With a soft hiss, the dwarrowdam let the blanket cover his shoulder again.

"How did he survive at all?"

Óin let out a gravelly chuckle. "Stubbornness, I expect." Then the old healer's expression became serious again. "Shall I leave ya to yer business, Highness?"

"No. Please stay." Dís turned her attention to the injured dwarf, who groaned softly at her gentle touch. "Josrin, I am Dís, daughter of Thrain. Can you hear me?"

"My... lady," groaned Josrin, eyes fluttering slightly.

When she saw how difficult speech came to him, she hushed him softly. "Save your strength." She turned to Óin gravely. "What treatment has he received thus far?" 

Óin scratched at his sleeve. "Well, to be honest, My Queen, I was instructed," he lowered his voice significantly, looking very uneasy, "that he should be 'practice' for my trainee. That I wasn't to touch him." 

"On whose orders?!" Dís demanded, appalled. 

"The King's orders, Highness. Your husband's." 

Dís felt her jaw flex and had to work to keep her anger in check. There were many things she would have said nothing about, valuing her secrecy above speaking out, but _this?_ "And he hadn't even the decency to call it a death sentence," she muttered, working hard to keep the words under her breath. The fury she'd harbored for Dain immediately after her brother's exile was making a vengeful return, charring and weakening the affection she'd begun to allow to take its place. The dwarf that had suffered no variation from his unyieldingly practical plan - that dwarf would not do this.

Óin was eyeing her sidelong, seeming somewhat nervous. Dís took a deep breath. She knew herself well enough to know she was leaking her anger, and oughtn't have let it.

"Óin, do what you can for him, and if anyone asks, we'll say it was 'instruction' for your trainee. Can he be trusted to support your story if questioned?"

Óin's brows knit, and he leaned fractionally closer. He seemed to be trying to decipher her, as though she were cryptic handwriting. "My Queen, if this is a test... I..." He hesitated, seeming very torn. "I don't know if the rumors are true or not... that you remain loyal to Thorin, despite yer marriage to his cousin." He glanced over his shoulder at the young dwarf beginning to make water rounds. Where he'd been lurking before now, Dís didn't know. Óin's already low voice dropped to a faint whisper. "My trainee's an informant, Your Highness. Of that I'm sure as day. Why else d'ya think he watches me so closely? Ya think Dain'd leave a member of Thorin's Company unsupervised in times like these?"

"I had held out hope that the _healers' hall,_ of all places," she growled softly, but didn't finish the sentence. Yes, she'd known Óin was being watched, but she'd hoped that his job and his apprentices wouldn't be interfered with. After all, there were few enough crafts as respected as that of healer. She thought briefly of her brother, Frerin... so bright, so eager. So gentle with his hands.

The dwarrowdam shook her head slightly. "This is unacceptable. Is nothing sacred?"

"So... it's true, then?" Óin turned his head just enough that he could locate his trainee without performing any more suspicious over-the-shoulder glances. "You're still loyal to... your brother?" There was wariness in his tone, and Dís supposed she should be thankful he was being so cautious. Only an idiot would have simply played along, as though she weren't married to a usurper who evidently had informants everywhere.

"I am loyal to my people," Dís answered carefully. "And to the pursuit of just rule. My husband and I... differ on how best to deal with those who disagree."

Óin regarded the dwarrowdam with a healthy measure of uncertainty now, and though it stung, Dís knew it was as things should be. Though she longed to directly contradict the king's orders, to do so would be folly on many levels.

"This," she murmured, gesturing to Josrin, "happens to be a point on which we disagree." Lifting a hand, she caught the trainee's attention, and summoned him with a twitch of her fingers.

"Do you know how to save him?" she asked, and her tone brooked no evasion.

The trainee, a lad maybe just into his nineties, tugged at his sleeves. "Well, I... I did my best." He shrugged lightly. "Master Óin's taught me pretty well. It's just that...." He frowned, pulling back the blanket a little more. Josrin twitched, hissing as the wool came away from a lattice of lacerations, deep, fiercely red, and weeping. Dís drew in a sharp breath, closing her eyes briefly. She turned back to the trainee. 

"You know how to treat someone in his condition? You're qualified?" 

"Well, yes. I think so." The young dwarf stared at his boots uncertainly. "Tried getting him to drink earlier on, but he couldn't keep anything down. I figured...." He shifted, glancing at Óin as though pleading for help. "I was told he wouldn't last the night anyway, so I should just... make him comfortable."

"Don't give up." Her voice carried a strange, thick quality, as though this dwarf meant more to her than just a subject. She knew nothing of him beyond his name and the implications of his actions, but there was something... like her mother whispering in her ear, her brother shouting from a distance, their words combining and uniting in her mind. _Every life matters._

"Don't give up. Never give up. This dwarf deserves to live as much as you or I. Would you let him pass into the Halls of Waiting, knowing that you might have saved him?" Dís forced herself to look at the map of welts and torn skin. "I've seen dwarves survive worse. Come. I know you can do more. Your master is at your side, and this dwarf's life hangs in the balance. Let it never be said that we of Erebor let our kin perish needlessly." Dís stopped then, aware she had spoken too much, although it had been truth in her words, truth as deep as her bones.

The young dwarf seemed more surprised than inspired. "But My Queen, I was told-" 

"Forget what you were told." Dís' motherly tone hardened. "You will treat this dwarf, and you will treat him properly. Your master will guide you, or risk my royal displeasure." 

"And if Dain hears of this?" Óin looked askance at the trainee in a way Dís knew meant there was little possibility of Dain _not_ hearing of it. 

"Then I will take all responsibility." Dís straightened, squaring her shoulders. "You as healers have taken an oath. One stronger than the whims of a king, and far more binding. Would you abandon that oath, now it is being tested?" 

The trainee flushed with shame and looked down. Had she touched a nerve, or perhaps summoned a memory he'd buried in loyalty and self-importance? It wasn't for her to know, but she stepped back as the youngling moved forward to do as he was told. Under Óin's guidance, the trainee carefully cleaned and tended the various injuries. If they healed, they would leave many more scars than even a miner was wont to bear.

The work took long enough that Dís's sturdy boots were beginning to feel confining and hard as she remained where she stood. The trainee slipped off with the soiled rags, dirty water and instruments that would need to be sterilized. He would tell Dain, but Dís thought the cost of a hard look and a scolding worth the effort to save this dwarf's life. Josrin was unconscious, and it was just as well. She turned to leave, but stopped when a rough hand touched her arm.

"Highness," murmured Óin, "it was a noble thing ya did, but I fear for ya."

"What suffering on my part is not worth the lives of my people?" she returned, and patted his hand gently. "I know what I do, Healer."

* * *

The inevitable confrontation began mostly as Dís had anticipated. A heavy knock on her door in the early morning. She was awake, of course, sipping tea in her chair and poring over some books of law. Dain admitted himself, entering the suite before she'd had much of a chance to prepare herself. The dwarf's grey beard was bristling, though his rage seemed a quieter sort - a simmer that might easily become a rolling boil. 

"So. You would seek to undermine my authority in defense of a traitor?" He crossed his arms, leaning over her like a dark, looming cloud. "This is the second time, Dís. Why don't you trust me to handle my own business?"

She didn't stand, but she did put her tea aside. "You told me once," Dís lifted her eyes to meet her husband's, "that if I thought you in error, I ought to let you know. I'm letting you know."

Dain's shoulders seemed nearly rigid with unmistakable anger. "By defying my direct orders?"

"You ordered him lashed, and he was. You ordered the trainee to treat him, and he did. You did not order his death, for which I am grateful. If you had, I would respect you far less. As it is, that respect is waning." Dís kept her tone calm, but she knew it had an edge to it.

"You will not presume to meddle!" Dain seized the arms of the chair, his face so close now to Dís' that she could distinctly smell the oil he combed through his beard. "You are my wife and queen, and as such, you will respect and honor me." When she didn't reply, he sighed, seeming to lose some of his steam. He pushed himself up, swinging away from the chair as though he were having trouble keeping his balance. After a moment's pause, he turned to look at her again. 

"I see I must cling to your every whim if I'm to retain your favor. You think you know the state of this kingdom better? Perhaps you should run it! Give succor to traitors, mercy to those who would rise up and destroy all we've achieved. Then perhaps you will understand the conundrum of leadership, the difficult decisions that must be made." His gaze bored into hers keenly. "The seedlings that must be culled... before they become oaks. "

"Culled?" Dís was aghast. She was beyond aghast - she was appalled. This didn't sound like the edict of a king. This sounded like the raving of a tyrant. Had she been so misled all along? Had she really known so little of her cousin?

Some of her disgust must have shown on her face, despite her efforts to the contrary, for Dain gave her a macabre smile.

"You see my quandary, then. I cannot allow these dissenters to thrive under my rule."

_Dissenters. Traitors. Gold. Does he never speak of anything else?_

"Did not we agree when you took me as your queen that we would rule together? Yet you do not alert me when council is called, you make judgments without consulting me. What am I to conclude then, Dain, but that you so lightly break your word?"

This seemed to stir something before untouched during the conversation. Dain looked away again, considering. Even from the half-profile she could see of his face, Dís could mark the confusion that crossed his features. "I... don't remember agreeing to that," he said, finally, and Dís couldn't detect deceit in his tone. He turned back to face her. "At least, that's not the way I remember it."

"Then how _do_ you remember it?"

Dain hesitated. "You promised you would support me, even when you didn't agree with me. You pledged your love and loyalty, no matter your differences of opinion." He crossed his arms, smiling faintly. "I knew there would be arguments. I know you're stubborn, strong-willed. But... I thought you'd at least _try_ to make an exception where I was concerned."

Dís shook her head. "I don't understand. I don't know what's happening to you. You were always... for all your faults, you were never a dwarf to make such compromises, to put your position over your kinsman. You were hard, yes. Strict. But you were also a dwarf who would fight alongside his own soldiers, defend the commonest of them with his life." She sighed, glancing at the law book she'd set on the table near her chair. "You would never have put gold above justice, above the wellbeing of your own people."

When Dís lifted her gaze to meet Dain's again, she saw surprise in his eyes, wide under gnarled eyebrows. A ruddy tinge crept along his neck and he looked away - only then did Dís realize that he was embarrassed. How long had it been since she'd seen that expression on her king's face?

"I... didn't know you thought so highly of me," Dain muttered, stroking his beard distractedly.

Had Dís been one to laugh at such things, she might have given in to the impulse. "Would I have agreed to marry you if I _didn't?_ "

Dain considered briefly. "No. I suppose not." He leaned against the partition wall, most of his anger seemingly departed. "I would please you at all times if I could, my queen. But sometimes... you make it very difficult."

Dís had the distinct impression she was speaking to the real Dain now, or at least, part of him. As though he'd been encased within a shell, and now, she was breaking through. Even if only a little.

"I'm afraid this has become more than a matter of pleasing or displeasing me, my king. I am not a child that I can be placated with gifts and soothing tones. My concerns must be answered."

"As should mine," replied Dain soberly. "Why did you defy me?"

Dís hesitated. Wasn't that obvious to him? Didn't he understand? She found in herself a surprising desire for him to understand her motivations... to not condemn her for her actions, her loyalty. This dwarf, this king, the one that smiled or became flustered or shared drinks with her. This one, not the Dain that coldly sentenced miners to death for speaking out against unfair treatment.

"The sentence was to endure 50 lashes. He did so. And the healer-trainee had orders to treat him alone. That happened as well. I merely ensured he received such treatment that he didn't perish in the night." Dís looked up into her husband's face. "We have lost so many already - to war, to raids, to illness, to the dragon.... How can we turn on our own now, and just let them perish, when a lesser punishment would be more effective? To kill Josrin would make him a martyr, and validate his words against you. I searched the records for some mention of an investigation of his complaints," Dís gestured to three large scrolls on her desk, which had occupied her most of the night, "but I could find none. Perhaps the accounts are in your study? If he spoke ill of their situation without reason, then surely it should be made known. Let the other miners tell the truth of the situation."

She didn't think this was the case, but it was a persuasive argument she hoped would keep Dain's interest.

"I had hoped... to avoid creating a martyr," Dain admitted. "If he died of his wounds, it would have reflected more upon his weakness than the punishment I ordered."

Dís shook her head again. "My King, you cannot hope to save this kingdom through such tactics. It is not the dwarven way, this... subterfuge."

"Perhaps you're right." Dain sighed, frowning distantly. "Not all those who counsel me do so with as much foresight or understanding as you."

He must have taken his latest course of action on the leading of his advisors. That much made sense. What she _didn't_ understand was just how they'd prevailed upon him so completely. What was the nature of their game?

"Then perhaps I should counsel you more often." 

Dain nodded slightly, his gaze still very far away. "Maybe you should," he agreed, but Dís barely heard him. Her mind was locked onto the current problem of the royal advisers. She admitted to herself that she hadn't paid overmuch attention to them outside of the few Council meetings she'd attended, but not all of the Council members were among the ranks of Dain's advisers, and not all of his advisers were on the Council. Dís had been more concerned with the doings of the Mountain, her treaties and laws, her people. Now she wanted to kick herself for the oversight.

When Dain sighed, she refocused on him, and noticed that he looked pale and tired, almost haggard. A prick of concern urged Dís to her feet, and she extended a hand toward him.

"Dain, you've not been yourself. Why don't you lie down for a while? I can-" She didn't get the chance to complete her offer. Just as her fingers brushed his wrist, Dain reacted, smacking her hand away with stinging force.

"You have no authority over me." His tone was harsh, a low snarl that didn't sound anything like how he'd been talking a moment before.

"Authority? No, my king, not at all. Please, sit down - I'll get you some tea." Dís wasn't sure whether to be angry or concerned, honestly. This sudden change seemed wildly out of character for Dain. It felt  _ wrong. _

"I don't need it." The dark, hostile tone persisted. "There's nothing wrong with me." Dís felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Was he going mad? She'd done nothing that would call for such a reaction. In fact, she'd been warm. Wifely. Wasn't that what he had wanted in the beginning, when he'd asked how to win her heart? Affection? Tenderness? She might've been tempted toward deep offense if she weren't so confused by it all.

Dís opened her mouth, perhaps to ask him why he was so angry, perhaps to insist that he rest, but she never got the words out. One of Dain's thick hands swept back, as though he intended to smack her clean across the face. The concept shocked her into silence, and though the blow never landed, the threat of it hung heavy in the air between them.

"You've said enough," snarled the king, and he took a step backward, toward the door. "Don't try my patience. Stay out of my way, if you know what's good for you."

When he'd gone, Dís took a moment to compose herself. Cold fear was attempting to seize control of her, and she knew only one thing would ward it off. Action. She had to find out what was going on, and she couldn't risk anyone knowing what she was up to. Moving swiftly into her secondary chamber - the room in which Nikû had stayed for the short time she'd been in Erebor - she changed into her bodyguard's old, faded traveling clothes. They wouldn't have been out of place on any common worker, and once Dís had pulled her hair back into a style she'd never before worn as queen of Erebor - severe and unadorned - and unbraided the hair along her jawline, as well as her eyebrows, she knew she scarcely resembled the refined and decorous figure her subjects would recognize. A bit of soot from the fireplace would strengthen the illusion, allow her to mingle with less risk of being recognized. She needed to find out everything Dain wasn't telling her, everything her own network of servants had either missed, or weren't in a position to see.

There was a secret passage from her chambers, as there was from each of the rooms in the royal wing, and it led down to the dining hall (someone must have had a sense of humor when excavating the passage). The passages all led to different places, except for the two main rooms - the king's suite and its immediate neighbor - which both led to the treasury. Dís' memories of those places were dim now, but her recollection was clear enough to dislike both the passage and its destination.

Now, though, as she emerged into the dining hall and mingled with the crowd, Dís banished those thoughts from her mind. There were more important matters at hand. She let the alias she and Nikû had developed take over, until it was Vere, not Dís, who collected her food and sat down with the miners who were getting ready for the beginning of another long day.

Their banter seemed natural enough, the typical conversations of miners concerning the work to be done, and to Dís' relief, she wasn't spared a second glance by any of the dwarves around her.

It was only minutes into the meal, however, that she had her first lead. One of the miners at the table adjoining hers, a chestnut-haired, hardy-looking youth, slammed a spoonful of stew back into his bowl with a displeased grunt. 

"Stuff's worse 'an ever. Ya know what 'ey say, don'cha?" He lowered his voice slightly, leaning toward his comrades. "We're runnin' outta food stores. Don't wanna even guess at what's in this."

"Stop complainin'," another rejoined. "I've had far worse, and that's a bloomin' fact."

"Why's food running low, then? Where'd ya hear that?" The current speaker was smaller and thin-bearded, but had a sturdy, work-hardened look about her.

"I was in Josrin's crew," the first miner replied, voice hushed so Dís had to strain to hear him. "He knew a bit 'bout what's goin' on. Knew too much, I'd say. Heard what 'ey did to him, didn't ya?"

The female nodded. "Aye. Who hasn't?" Gravity settled over their conversation like a blanket of frost. Several of the group shifted uneasily.

The chestnut-haired miner sighed, shaking his head. "Not at all like it was s'posed to be, is it? Not like the stories."

There was a portion of the disguised queen that desperately wanted to know what sort of paradise they expected, and if it was the same one she'd hoped to be part of, but that information was not as important to her current mission as other things. Dís kept her mouth shut and ate the thin, somewhat oily stew the miners were provided with.

She had noticed no deficiency in the meals set on the king's table, but she agreed with some of the miners that this stew seemed sorely lacking. A shortage in the pantries was all she could think of to explain it with any degree of forgiveness. Nothing else of importance was said until the bell rang, iron clattering piercingly over the rumble of conversation to let all know the work day had just begun. She followed the miners, dropping off her plate and moving with them toward the shafts. A crew boss would notice an extra body on the ropes in the open shaft of the ancient gold mine, and enlisting herself would confine her too much for the day's purpose, so the dwarrowdam quietly slipped past the miners as they donned their harnesses and checked their tools. In a minute, she was wearing her own harness, this one laden with empty water skins. She would be among them, but not part of them.

Along with two others wearing similar harnesses, Dís made her way to the kitchen, where they filled their skins at the pump in the corner. The rhythmic splash of liquid into the skins wasn't enough to drown out the chatter of the cooks.

"When was the last time we had a nice fat boar, eh?" asked a dwarf with a thick beard, but no hair on his head. He looked at a suckling lamb laid out on the counter, waiting to be skinned. "I miss the taste of wild boar."

"Just be glad t' have what y'do. Nothin' good comes o' complainin'." The second cook was female, the wisps of her beard braided back into her hair at the sides. She shook her apron at him. "Nothin' but trouble."

"Maybe what we need is a bit of trouble."

Dís was listening so intently she nearly overfilled one of the skins, but caught herself in time.

The other cook hushed her companion with a haste that felt of fear. "I'll have no such talk in my kitchen," she scolded. When the first cook sighed, she touched his arm. "Keep your beard up, Terfun. Things'll get better. You'll see."

"Hope you're right." Setting his jaw resignedly, Terfun took up a knife and started in on the lamb, humming distractedly to himself. The conversation was apparently at an end, but Dís was left with more questions than she had answers. It was maddening, but she could always make a return trip later, after her skins were empty. Surely, it would happen fast enough with the mining crews.

Hefting the water, Dís flexed her knees. It was nearly half her own weight in liquid, and cumbersome, but nothing she couldn't handle. The trip back to the shaft took longer, but it was a good opportunity to process and plan. When she finally hooked herself to the ropes to lower herself to the miners below, she knew what questions she would ask. Her alias, Vere, had a bone to pick with Josrin, and needed to know why he'd disappeared.

"He owes me money, and ain't gonna get out of it that easy," she explained grumpily to the first miner who gave her a funny look when she asked where Josrin was.

"I wouldn't hope to see a coin of it," he said warily, glancing wonderingly at his fellows. "You must be the only dwarf in these mines not to know what happened to him." 

Dís frowned, feigning confusion. "What d'ya mean?" The miner shook his head, exchanging a pointed chisel for a more flat-headed one. 

"Said too much already. I've no wish to share his punishment." Dís couldn't get any more out of him, but there were others more willing to talk, when she found a way to broach the subject with less hostility, being careful not to attract the attention of the overseers. 

"Terrible what happened to Josrin, ain't it?" she asked an older dwarf, busily engaged in sorting through a bucket of rock he'd chiseled. It might've been an awkward topic to broach out of the blue, but the miner sighed sympathetically, nodding. 

"Aye. Made quite the spectacle of him, they did. Ah well. Probably better off where he is now than-" 

"Hey! Water carrier!" The Iron Hills accent was thick, the tone harsh as it echoed down to them from the overseer's ledge. "Get a move on. No time for idle chatter down here."

"I'm movin'!" Dís called back, irritated with the interruption. "Don't get your beard in a knot." The older miner gave her a concerned look.

"I wouldn't say such things, young'un," he murmured. "The overseers have more power down here than anyone else."

_That's what they think._ Dís' thoughts had taken a grim turn, but she gave the miner a smile and exchanged his empty waterskin for a full one before nodding to him and hoisting herself up along her ropes.

Three different kinds of mine were open in Erebor. Tunnel mines, like the ones she knew from Ered Luin, that reminded her of Vili; surface mines, that were really just quarries, but fell into the same category; and shaft mines, like this one. Shaft mines were the most dangerous, but also had a reputation for high yield, so dwarves kept working them.

One of the overseers, probably the one that had yelled at her, met her at the top of the shaft. Dís was feeling surly, but knew better than to lash out at the dwarf for his ineptitude. She'd only just turned to move past him to a new set of lines when he grasped her harness and gave her a shove. Only his strong arm stopped her from falling over the edge and to her death. Dís' harness cut into her shoulders, the leather creaking ominously under the strain as she dangled from the overseer's hand, her feet braced against the edge.

"You test me," he growled, "and you'll end up like Josrin, you hear? No one mouths off to an overseer. Now get back to work, Blue Mountain scum, before I decide you've turned traitor." Hauling her back over the edge again, he gave her another shove, in the direction she'd been going anyway. Dís stumbled, then fell to all fours, shaking slightly.

It was tempting, the impulse to turn on him, pull her signet ring from where she'd tucked it away inside her tunic, and demand he plead for his life, having laid hands on the Queen of Erebor. Tempting, but not at all useful. It would destroy her ruse completely. Instead, she muttered an apology, quite possibly the most venomous one ever uttered, and forced herself back to her feet. Still shaking, but making a concerted effort to calm herself, she quickly attached her harness to the new set of lines, then turned to inspect the dwarf who had just threatened her life. He was short but brawny, his arms nearly twice the breadth of his neck, and his hair and beard were dark, almost black. 

He scowled at her as she began to descend, then turned and spat over the edge nearest him, his attention shifting to another hapless target. "Keep your chisel moving! Keep it moving, or you'll catch it. One more time I see you slacking, and I'll put you on the night shift, too."

The first and nearest of the miners gave her a questioning, half-concerned look as she came to a stop beside him. She could tell he wasn't from Ered Luin by his braids, but his worried expression told her he'd been watching the episode from below. Dís shrugged, letting her gaze slide away from his to communicate 'yeah, it was scary, but I don't want to talk about it' as succinctly as possible.

"It's not all bad," said the miner encouragingly, and accepted the water she offered him. "Ya just caught him on an off day."

"I'm sure," she muttered, and exchanged the miner's waterskin for a fresh one. "Are they all like that, then?" 

The miner shrugged. "Aye. You get used to it, though. After a fashion." He squinted at her in the dim light. "Haven't seen you before, have I?" 

"I'm new," she explained flatly, hoping she hadn't inadvertently given him some spark of recognition. 

He smiled faintly, nodding. "Not quite what you were expecting, eh?" 

Dís shook her head slowly. "It was s'pposed ta be better here," she murmured, feeling the words as though they bared far more than she wanted them to. But it was a sentiment she'd heard so many times since her brother had left, that it had become her own without her ever needing to voice it. Erebor was supposed to be idyllic. Instead, it was becoming a trap.

The miner touched her shoulder gently, giving it a comforting squeeze before returning to his work before the interruption of his tap-tap-tapping could attract attention. Dís was surprised by the gentle strength of the miner's touch. It reminded her keenly of all she _hadn't_ received as Dain's wife and queen, and it took great effort to force such distracting thoughts aside. Her stint in the mines was exhausting, though she reassured herself it was mostly the fact that she wasn't accustomed to such work, rather than that she'd grown soft. 

She had seen what she'd come to see, and when at last her supply of water ran out, she returned to the surface with a crew of miners whose shift had ended for the day. The dwarves stared straight ahead, almost as if they were in a daze. None of them spoke, or in any way disturbed the almost eerie silence. Fatigue, probably, Dís reasoned. These miners had been at work since midnight in Dain's apparent scheme to keep the mines running night and day. Dís wondered if the Mountain's revenue had actually increased enough to even remotely justify such labor requirements, and what sort of wage these dwarves were receiving. If any. 

"Well..." She tried to be as casual as possible, though it was difficult when speaking into almost total silence. "What're you lot makin' these days? Thinkin' of puttin' in for a crew what works the lower seam. Heard it's good pay. Better'an water carryin' anyhow."

She could hear the forced note in her own words, and tried not to wince. The strain sounded too much like falsehood to her sensitive ears. A miner to her right and slightly in front of her let out a bark of hoarse laughter.

"Lower seam's even worse," he grunted, his tone humorless and dry. "Wouldn't be worth nuthin' if I didn't git housin' an' food fer my sister an' her kid, well as m'self."

One of the others shook his head. "Someone's been tellin' ye stories. Good pay, my arse. An' if ye grumble about it, yer lucky if ye get less'n a good thrashin'." Dís hadn't gone into the lower seam. She hadn't supposed the miners down there would be facing conditions worse than those above, but something was rapidly becoming clear to her. All these dwarves were newcomers from Ered Luin. She could tell by their accents, the cut and cloth of their torn and dirty garments. 

Dain was assigning her former subjects from the Blue Mountains to the most thankless and arduous of the already thankless, arduous labor. He was trying to break their spirits, weaken them until any who might still have strength to defy him were stripped of their last reserves. 

It was all beginning to make sense. He was making slaves of free dwarves, and greed was only part of his motivation. This was madness on top of the madness she'd already experienced today. Had Dain really been so clever before at hiding his true nature? Had he never been who she'd believed he was?

* * *

"And you think I can find something you couldn't?" Kuran looked at his queen as though she'd asked whether or not she ought to dye her beard purple. She was still damp from her bath, and was in the process of putting her braids back in order.

"I think you can flirt with the cooks better than I can," Dís retorted, unable to keep a faint smile from her tone. "Just make conversation. See what comes up. I want to know if there's any substance to this rumor that our larders are running bare."

The warrior didn't look convinced, but he smoothed his wild beard with one broad hand, not offering any argument on the point. "And what will you be doing?"

"I'm going to go see my husband."

"You haven't slept at all, and it's nearly lunch-"

"Are you my confidante or my nursemaid? Go on. To the kitchens with you."

But going to see Dain could wait. As much as she trusted Kuran, she couldn't be completely open with him concerning her latest doings. As soon as she'd set her appearance in order, she went straight to the healer's ward. She found Óin was once more the healer on duty, though he'd doubtless taken some rest in the interim, since he seemed fairly fresh. The trainee was busy preparing bandages and splints (Dís noted now that a good many of the twenty or so patients were injured laborers), and hardly seemed to notice as she approached the old healer. 

"How is he?" She nodded toward the cot where Josrin lay, bundled in blankets. He was very still.

Óin shook his grey head, his old eyes sad under tangled brows. "Not good. He might pull through, but only if he fights for it. Not sure he will." The healer's words weren't accusing, but Dís felt the sting of them all the same. Josrin might choose to fight to live if he thought there was something worth living for. If he decided to give up, it was because she wasn't trying hard enough to redirect her mad husband's stupid ambition.

"Hasn't he family? Someone that might remind him of good times?"

Again, Óin shook his head. "He's alone, as far as I know." There was a slight pause as he looked at her, as though weighing his options. Deciding what to tell her.

_Alone._ She knew that feeling well enough these days. And if not for family's sake, what, indeed, did Josrin have to live for? Certainly not the misery he'd left behind in the mines. 

"Then I must appeal to him some other way," she said softly, moving toward the cot. As her hand came to rest, gently, on the miner's shoulder, Josrin twitched, his head moving into the pillow. He was still face-down, but his breathing seemed a little stronger than before.

"Josrin, can you hear me?" With an effort, the dwarf turned his face out from the pillow, blinking up at her as though the light hurt his eyes.

"He's disoriented," Óin offered at her back. "Pain potions." 

Dís nodded. "Josrin, I need you to speak. Tell me why you spoke against the king." Her voice was hushed as she leaned over the cot, and what with the groaning and muttering of the other patients behind her, she was almost certain the trainee couldn't overhear.

"Why..." mumbled the injured dwarf. His eyes seemed vacant, but sharpened when he focused on the signet ring gleaming on Dís' hand. "M'lady," he breathed.

"Tell my why you spoke against the king, Josrin." Dís kept her tone gentle and her voice low. For a minute, the injured dwarf was quiet. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and gravelly.

"One o' my boys didn' make 'is quota. Overseer said the 'ole crew would be stayin' 'til quota was filled. King's orders. They'd been workin' all day... couldn' jus' twiddle m'thumbs." Josrin's words were a little slurred, but Dís attributed that to the potions he'd been dosed with to help the pain.

"Who was the worker?" Dís pressed, aware the miner might lapse back into unconsciousness at any moment. "Was he punished as well?" 

Josrin's head rocked faintly from side to side. "Wasn't punished. Not that I saw. 'Cept to finish out the night." 

"His name?" 

"Bombur. Big bloke… red 'air." Dís shot a look at Óin, as though demanding an explanation. The healer looked very grave, but it was clear it hadn't come as a shock, this revelation that the poor cook had been sent to the mines. And not just the mines: the lower seam. 

"A reclaimer of Erebor," she whispered, appalled, "sent to hard labor? How did this come about?" 

Óin answered this time, his voice hushed, but hard and cold. "I believe 'twas Bombur that was caught discussin' the contents of the larder with another dwarf. Now 'e lives on a miner's wages."

Dís felt nausea roiling in her gut, disgusted by this newest revelation. How could Dain let this happen?

"What about his share of the hoard? He doesn't need-" She stopped when Óin shook his head silently, and Dís' blood began to truly boil. "Were none of you paid?"

The healer chuckled bitterly. "Not a coin. Ah, I didn't expect it, anyhow. Would it really make any sense, a king givin' vast wealth to those who'd been his rival's most loyal supporters?" Dís shook her head in disgust. 

"Sense or not, promises are binding, and contracts are nonnegotiable. I'll see you have your share, if my husband hasn't completely vanished into whatever it is he's becoming." 

Óin's face tightened with concern. "Oh no, milady. Ya mustn't mention a word o' this. Please. It'll do more harm than good, I know it." 

"Then what _shall_ I do to make things right? I cannot leave things as they are; it's not in my blood."

The old dwarf looked at her, a faint smile playing about his bearded mouth. "It does my heart good to hear it, Majesty, but I think there's naught ya can do for us directly." A cunning look crossed his face then, and Dís was reminded that dwarves didn't often live to the healer's age without knowing something others didn't. "Bombur's wife an' younglings might do with a visit, though. Poor 'dam could use a friend."

Dís considered briefly, then nodded. "I will do all I can for her, healer." She turned to the door. "Keep this good dwarf alive." She had taken Josrin's fate on herself, now he had no one else to look after him. A good, courageous dwarf had no business dying friendless and in despair. And, she reasoned, it was partially her fault he was in this mess, anyway. Her negligence had allowed this to go on. She'd been too occupied with playing Dain's game, taken in by his tender words and promises. She should have kept her wits about her, instead of allowing herself to be disarmed by him like a soft-hearted fool. No more. He had to be stopped. Óin bowed with surprising grace, tools clinking in his apron. 

"On my honor, my queen. I'd be grateful for whatever kindness ya can do 'em."

Dís nodded and, remembering the old miner in the shaft, touched Óin's arm, trying to reassure him as gently and silently as she could. Leaving the healers' hall was a trial. Part of her insisted that she should stay and watch after Josrin. It was ridiculous of course. She knew little about medicine, and wouldn't be able to help in any case. The rest of her dreaded going to see Bombur's mate, because there was far too great a chance the other dwarrowdam would blame her (justifiably) for the king's actions.

That should have been the least of her concerns, considering everything else that was going on. She nearly shuddered upon learning where Bombur's family lived - perhaps the most badly wrecked portion of the living quarters, and cramped to boot. No priority had been given to repairs or expansion, and it showed. The hall was still partially filled with stony rubble, though most of the dragon's filth and anything else that was easier to cart away had been cleared. The door she stopped in front of was cracked and crudely patched with thin, weathered boards and some kind of oozy paste. She could hear the crying of several children, scarcely muffled by the damaged wood. Just how many dwarrows did the former cook have?

After some hesitation, she knocked. There was a slight reduction in the noise from the apartment within, and a moment later, a harried-looking dwarrowdam with a thin red beard opened the door to peer out at Dís. There was a youngster, no older than fifteen, whom she was blocking from getting out into the hall with her leg as she asked, somewhat louder than necessary, "Can I do somethin' for ya, ma'am?" The unmistakable Blue Mountains accent fell on Dís' ears like an accusation.

"I was looking for the wife of Bombur," she answered, but even as she lifted her hand to offer it in greeting, the other female turned away.

"Mam! A lady here ta see ya!"

As the queen scrambled to recover from her mistake (and her surprise - how had she not heard Bombur had an unwed daughter?) a second female approached the door and pushed it further open, issuing a sharp order in Khuzdul when the young male tried to escape into the hall. This woman was visibly older than the first, with a thick brown beard and a baby on her hip. She had a careworn look about her, but she smiled at Dís all the same.

"Your Majesty. We weren't expecting you. Dola, run put on the kettle, and see what Ly is crying about." There were at least three more dwarrows of various ages looking around their mother's skirts at the stranger in the hall. Their mother shooed them back to make room for their guest.

The room was spare and empty, and the fire burning in the hearth was low, and sputtered for lack of fuel as one of the dwarrows hung the kettle over it.

The children's mother introduced herself as Igrette, and clapped for her brood to quiet down.

"I must apologize, my queen, for the lack of furniture."

"It's no trouble."

Igrette swept her gaze forlornly around the room, as if only just realizing how a royal visitor must see her dwelling place, a place she was clearly proud of, since she kept it immaculately clean. "We... traded the table and chairs last week. With this latest turn, I've had to send my eldest son out to..." Her cheeks reddened slightly. "Out to beg."

"Latest turn?" Dís paused near the fire. "What do you mean?"

Igrette studied her momentarily. "No disrespect to you, Your Highness. I don't mean to complain. I understand... it's just the way things are." She sighed. "All the same, my husband, when he comes home at all, he's just.... I'd hoped never to see him so. Our little ones- he feels he's failed them. Failed _us_."

She paused, turning to ensure her dwarrows were behaving. Clearly intimidated by the important-looking figure in the room, the children were lined up quietly on ragged straw mats against the wall, watching with wide eyes, the older ones bouncing and comforting the youngest. 

She could see seven dwarrows, all told. The girl who'd answered the door at first seemed to be the eldest, and there were two boys near her in age. Two little ones, probably ten or twelve years old, barely out of diapers, sat on their older siblings' laps. The mischievous fifteen-year old male was standing quietly near his eldest sister, and Igrette held the youngest, a whimpering babe in swaddling clothes.

"Are these all yours?" Dís knew her tone was impressed, though the sad state of the dwarrows and their ragged clothes was almost physically painful to look at. Igrette glanced at her children and smiled faintly, a look of pride crossing her tired features.

"I've claimed them all, even if they're not mine by blood. Little Monun here was born just before we left Ered Luin," she bounced the baby on her hip, and the infant squirmed, gurgling happily. "Jula is ours as well," she nodded to the red-bearded female that had answered the door, now sitting with her siblings, "and our oldest boy, Igur... he looks just like his grandfather." Igrette's smile had turned brittle. Out begging. Dís couldn't imagine the indignity of it. Clearly, the eldest child was yet too young to work.

"And the rest?" Dís glanced over her shoulder, toward where she knew a servant would be waiting quietly in the hall. She would have a word with him in a moment. These children needed food, fuel for their fire, proper clothes. She wouldn't stand by and let them suffer. Not like this.

"Bombur has a kind heart," Igrette said softly. "He never could bear to see younglings go without when we could take them in."

"Eight dwarrows," murmured Dís, unable to conceive of how such a household could function.

"Twelve," corrected Jula, giving the youngling in her lap a squeeze. "There are twelve of us."

"Jula, that's not how I taught you to speak with your betters."

The dwarrow lowered her head. "Sorry, Mam." She glanced up at Dís. "But there _are_ twelve of us. They're sick, is all. In the next room."

Dís shook her head in wonder. "Twelve young ones.... And barely a scrap of food to give them."

"We get by." Igrette adjusted the baby on her hip, then leaned down to reach into a small crate near the fire. "Soup bones are cheap, and broth is always reasonable." She held up a wrapped parcel, bouillon cubes from Dale. Dís glanced into the crate and saw, too, a few pathetic bundles of dehydrated vegetables. How were they surviving?

"I will see you are taken care of," Dís promised softly, her heart tight with the knowledge this had been partially her doing. But she hadn't known. If only she had _known_. 

"Your Majesty, there's no need-" began Igrette, but Dís lifted a hand to stop her protest. Whatever reason the dwarrowdam thought she had, it was moot in the face of her hungry children. She turned to the door and opened it just enough to speak with her servant.

"Please have supplies brought down here as soon as possible. Food, fuel, clothing, blankets. If anyone protests, show them this, and see it is done." Dís removed a heavy medallion from around her neck. Yes, it was more showy than her signet ring, but she felt the need to make a point. As the servant bowed and took the medallion, another dwarf approached, his footsteps slow and heavy.

"Adad!" The young male leapt forward before his mother could stop him, and in a moment, the red-bearded dwarf came into the light. His skin was sallow and loose, as though he'd lost a great deal of weight recently, but in spite of the heavy shadows under his eyes he smiled broadly, stooping to pick up the youngling.

"Dola! My little munchkin. You've been behaving, I hope?"

"Yes, Adad."

Bombur carried the dwarrow into his family's quarters and paused to bow to Dís.

"My lady. You look well."

Dís remembered meeting him once, when she'd first arrived. A cheerful, plump soul, who took great delight in food. It grieved her to see him so reduced. His clothes hung on him like they were hung on pegs, ragged and smudged with coal dust from the lower seam.

"I wish I could say the same," she murmured, throat constricted. What would Thorin think, if he knew she'd let his Company suffer like this?

Bombur shrugged. "It's nothing, really. I had plenty to spare." He made a curving motion over his midsection, indicative of his previous bulk. "It's my young ones I worry about." 

"Adad's not been eating," Dola supplied, matter-a-factly. "He always forgets his lunch." Dís' stomach pinched with guilt. 

"Rest at ease, Bombur. A reclaimer of Erebor and his family should want for nothing. I will see things put to rights." 

Bombur looked puzzled. "You mean - the king's changed his mind?" There must have been something in the way she hesitated that spoke for her, because Bombur started to shake his head. "No, milady. Don't stir up the coals. We can survive, but if you were hurt, Thorin would never forgive me."

The red-bearded dwarf was so open about speaking her brother's name that it didn't register at first that he'd been mentioned at all. Dís had become accustomed to secrecy, and when Thorin was mentioned at all, it was in tones of awe and respect. Bombur spoke of him as though he were an old friend, familiar and esteemed.

"I won't come to harm. But I _will_ see your family is provided for. If the king doesn't like that, then he can take it up with me." There was a measure of relish in the idea that Dain might confront her over this. It was as though that would be conclusive proof that he'd always been heartless.

Bombur looked somehow both concerned and relieved. "If... if you're sure. I don't care what more he does to me, but my family...." He trailed off.

"Will be just fine," Dís assured him. "You have my word." She didn't care if Dain punished her, denied her authority on the matter, ranted and raved and threatened. One way or another, she would see things made right.

Before Bombur had a chance to reply, the servant returned, carrying a large and obviously heavy basket. "I've brought some hot food in advance, my queen, since it may be an hour or so before everything else is ready." He handed the basket to Bombur, who swayed slightly beneath its weight in combination with that of his young son.

The servant seemed pleased with himself. "Anything else, Your Highness?"

"Thank you. That will do for now." Dís dismissed him with a wave, and turned to see most of Bombur's family crowded forward, looking on with astonishment. Igrette moved past them with a motherly cluck, throwing her free arm around her husband whilst somehow managing to keep the baby balanced on her opposite hip. Bombur blushed red, looking quite overwhelmed.

Dola squirmed in his father's arm, trying to reach the lid of the basket. "What's in there?" His eyes shone with delight. "Is it really for us?" 

"You can wait until we get it inside," Igrette's tone was fondly scolding, and Dola subsided, pouting only slightly. Bombur looked at Dís as his wife started to usher him toward the fire.

"Will you be joining us, my lady?"

It was a kind offer, but Dís knew she had things to do. "Thank you, but no. There are other matters that require my attention. I will return, though, when I can. In the meantime, take your ease, and rest."

Dís felt partially inclined to do likewise. It had been a long day already, and a trying one at that, but her conscience forbade her even small comforts until she had done more to undo what her husband had done.

She went first to the kitchens, where she intended to inspect the storeroom herself, the cooks' protests unavailing. She shouldn't have been surprised that the place was guarded - and rather robustly at that - though the soldiers posted before the door were quickly persuaded to stand aside, lest they incur a healthy dose of the Queen's wrath.

"I need to see a full inventory," she said crisply, while the head cook sputtered and looked terribly uncomfortable. "Come now. Quick. Surely you must have an inventory." 

The cook's hands fluttered uselessly around his rotund form. "I don't really.... Your Majesty, do you really need-?"

"Yes, I do need." Dís was becoming impatient, and she let it show. There was little that irritated her more than incompetence, and this cook was doing a very good impression of it.

"I... yes, Your Majesty." With a miserable sigh, the dwarf fumbled at his belt for a big ring of keys that jangled clamorously as he unlocked the storeroom door.

The first thing that impressed Dís as she stepped through the wide doorway was the spaciousness of the place. Wall to wall, the torchlight danced on rows of shelves and tables and crates - a good many of which were empty. She noticed, too, the vast, empty spaces where skidmarks in the dusty floor revealed things that had been lately removed. Not long ago, by the looks of it. So the rumors hadn't been unsubstantiated. But maybe she was simply being misled by the size of the space; after all, there were hardly as many dwarves living here as there were in her grandfather's day. 

"The inventory," she called back through the doorway. "The full sum. I need to see it." The papers, at least, wouldn't lie.

As Dís turned, intending to confront the cook, she saw him framed in the doorway. For a terrible moment, she foresaw a nightmare image of the door booming shut and trapping her in hot, muffling darkness. The cook, of course did no such thing. He stepped inside, and pulled a surprisingly thin volume from a shelf, beside two small sacks of flour. This he opened and nervously passed to her.

Dates, purchases, merchants' names and deliveries were marked down, amounts dutifully noted in their proper slots, but it seemed... incomplete. The letters were too neat, the numbers too perfect. Nothing had been blotted, scratched out or corrected. Dís could see that it clearly added up to what she could see before her, but it was too simple to just believe this. There were too many questions left unanswered.

"And this is the complete record?" She kept her skepticism to herself. It wouldn't do to let on how little she trusted Dain's lackies.

The cook nodded vigorously, his pasty skin gleaming with a thin film of sweat.

"That's all there is, Your Highness."

_ Or that's all you've been instructed to show me. _ Dís didn't think for a moment that this was the complete record. She could tell that the cook knew more, and as she closed the record book, her knife hand itched to introduce the blade to the space around the traitor's neck, just to tickle some of that information out of him.

It was tempting, but then the day's work would all be for naught. With a sigh, she placed the book back on the shelf and frowned at the cook. "Make up a list of your providers and have it sent to my study. I'll be having a word with our merchants. This is unacceptable." 

The cook said nothing, but seemed to shrink in on himself as he nodded. Dís knew her actions would be reported to Dain, but hopefully she'd get to the bottom of what what _truly_ going on before he had a chance to hinder her.

"I'll need that list within the next hour," she called over her shoulder as she moved to the kitchen's double-doored egress. "Don't test me."

She ran through her observations as she strode quickly to her study. Ledger too neat. Obviously not the way such things were truly recorded. Scripted, almost. The dust on the floor, scraped aside in several large patches where crates had been moved - and not just a few. It had to have happened all at once, else that particular evidence wouldn't have been created. The cook's reticence, and pathetic attempt at deceit. She wasn't sure what sort of scheme Dain was up to, but she felt confident someone would slip up. A machine like this had too many cogs for such secrets to remain secure.

The list came in twenty minutes, sent with a kitchen boy who bowed repeatedly and looked as though he'd faint if Dís so much as glanced at him sternly. No doubt the cook had said a few things.

"Thank you. You may go." The queen pored over the list of names as the dwarrow bowed again and gratefully left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

An ample list, to be sure, and interviewing them all would take some time. She'd have to select those who would be the most profitable use of her time. The brief descriptions would help in that selection process. 

She was so engrossed in the list that she didn't notice Kuran's presence until he touched her shoulder. Dís jumped, splattering ink across her notes and hands. With a blistering oath, the dwarrowdam grabbed a rag and glared at her bodyguard, significantly less than pleased with him for startling her.

"Didn't your mam teach you to knock?" she snapped, aware that she was taking out her frustration on a dwarf who was (in this case) innocent.

"I did," rejoined Kuran with an amused smile. "You know, you didn't have to make all that fuss down in the kitchen. I could have told you all you learned and more, if you had waited."

Dís frowned at her ink-splattered hands, the rag smudging her fingers charcoal-black. "I would have hoped you'd have provided anything of relevance that you knew some time ago. Clearly, you thought the situation in the mines wasn't anything worth bothering me about."

Kuran shifted, his amusement fading. "I knew there was nothing you could do about it without compromising... our position. As you can see, I was right to be concerned."

Dís glared at him, still vigorously dabbing at the ink. "Why don't you trust _me_ to know whether anything can or can't be done. I haven't compromised anything." She scoffed. "I have a ready defense for Dain when next he sees fit to confront me."

"And you think he's in a reasonable enough frame of mind to hear a defense?"

That brought Dís up short, but her face revealed none of her doubts. "I judge him to be sound enough. I know where best to press him."

Kuran seemed unconvinced, but it wasn't her intent to persuade him anyway. She sighed, tossing the spotted rag across the study. "Anything _else_ you've been withholding from me that might prove useful, or shall I just go wring the rest of these secrets out of Dain himself?"

"You sent me to the kitchen to gather information," he reminded her, his tone now flat. "I was there when the Guard took the supplies from the larder."

Dís realized, with a humbling measure of chagrin, that she hadn't given him a chance to report on his findings. She'd been so concerned with getting him out of the way so she could work that she hadn't thought about what he might have accomplished or learned in the meantime.

"You might have said." She straightened in her seat, prepared to forgive all. Including the ink-stains. "Where did they take the supplies? Were the orders those of Dain, or his counsellors?" 

"I don't know where the supplies were going, but I do know that they left the Mountain. The Guard referenced a Lord Gedin when they talked about their orders - nothing more about where they came from. But they took the supplies outside and left them in a specified rendezvous spot, with two young officers and a complete list. I couldn't follow them all the way without being seen, so I came back here to report."

Kuran's words were steady, the tempo neither rushed nor leisurely, but efficient.

"Lord Gedin." Dís mulled the name over. It didn't sound familiar at all. "Did you find anything out about him?"

Kuran shook his head. "Haven't had a chance to ask my contacts. I'll do that first thing."

"Smuggling food supplies out of the Mountain." Dís stood, pacing over to the fire. "Sending them to the Iron Hills? Why would he deplete Erebor's resources, unless it was to his advantage somehow?"

"I'll poke around after this Gedin, and see if I can find out who's taking these supplies, and where."

Dís ignored Kuran's voice, all her concentration bent on forcing her tired mind to run through possibilities. The food might be just that - supplies being sent to other people out of the goodness of Dain's manic heart. Doubtful, but possible. The food might be some sort of payment, an exchange for services yet unknown to her. If so, who was he paying? Who would value food enough to accept it as payment? Someone who didn't have access to a lot of food. Not the elves, then, because there had been no sign of hunger among them, and they had given generously to the citizens of Laketown and Dale as they started to rebuild. The Iron Hills, maybe, but none of the dwarves from the Iron Hills seemed particularly used to hardship - they had complained about the thin stew that morning as much as the rest. The men of Laketown, again, maybe. They would have motivation to accept the payment, but what would they be able to offer in return?

"Majesty?" Kuran was standing in front of her, waving a hand in front of her nose. Dís blinked, focusing on him again. "I think you need to rest before we do anything else about this."

The queen dismissed his concerns. "I won't be able to rest until I've figured out what's going on. I'd be better off at my workbench."

"I could procure a particular tea from the healers that might help with that."

"Doesn't work on me. I've tried it."

Kuran seemed impressed. "Alright, then. I'll trust you to look after yourself." He bowed lightly and turned to go, then paused, looking back over his shoulder as if having second thoughts. "Promise me one thing, Highness. You won't go snooping around anymore. You'll do more harm than good."

"Don't presume to know the future." Dís was mildly irritated that Kuran was telling her what to do, but she grudgingly acknowledged that the risk of the day's venture was more real, more immediate than she would have liked to admit. Doubtless, word of her interference in the kitchen was spreading, perhaps had already reached Dain. When she didn't reappear in the mines tomorrow, it was possible that the dwarves that worked there would notice her sudden appearance and equally sudden absence. Any number of conclusions might be jumped to, and very few (if any) of them would help her cause.

"Be on your way." The queen made a tired, dismissive gesture at Kuran. "Do what you can to find out more about Lord Gedin and where those supplies are going."

When the warrior saw that there was no further information forthcoming, he bowed again, and disappeared through the door, looking less than satisfied with their exchange.

It couldn't have been more than a handful of minutes later before there was a knock on the door. Heavy and insistent in a way Dís recognized instantly as bad news, and possibly danger. She stood quickly, glancing about the room as though searching for an escape. But there was none, and anyway that was a silly thought. She'd have to face him.

She smoothed her hair and dress, frowning at her ink-stained hands. "Enter."

The door opened quickly, and Dís was surprised to see no less than six guards standing in the space outside, armed, and dour-faced.

The foremost dwarf was an older, seasoned captain she'd seen a few times on duty, and heard referenced by Kuran once or twice. He'd never been particularly friendly, but he seemed honest enough, and was well-respected. "Your Majesty..." The captain hesitated, clearly disliking the news he brought. "I am afraid... I have orders for your immediate arrest."

"Arrest? On what grounds?" Though her tone was steady (and indignant) Dís' mind was utter chaos. She scrambled through her memories of the day, trying to figure out who would have known, who would have seen-

"You are being held under suspicion of treason, my lady, and..." the captain hesitated again, and she noticed that when his gaze flitted away from her, it was toward the guards behind him, "and suspected plotting against the King Under the Mountain."


	27. Kíli; Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel and Kíli make the most of a little time alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long delay.   
> I've recently obtained another job (and promptly dropped one of my old ones, because three's a crowd) but things have been pretty insane, tryingn to find time for everything. 
> 
> Loki is swamped at school, and we're doing our best to keep each other sane by writing more of this faabulous story for you wonderful folks. 
> 
> Send prayers and good thoughts her way. When I say "swamped," what I mean is "drowning." 
> 
> I plan to post again later this week, if time allows, so I can get back on top of things. *determined face* I WILL NOT BE CONQUERED!!!
> 
> Without further ado, more Buried In Coals. That's what this is, right?

"Where are you going this time?" The touch of irritation in her tone was so foreign that Kíli actually stopped in the doorway and turned back to face his mate, just to check that she had really spoken, and there wasn't someone else in the room... with her voice. Tauriel was sitting up, away from the pillows that softened the curved wooden back of the rocker she now slept in. The rails squeaked faintly as she leaned forward and the chair rocked under her weight, the fabric of her loose tunic bunching around her swollen belly.

"I'm just stepping out for some air, love. Don't worry yourself about it." Kíli knew immediately that his attempt at soothing her irate temper hadn't worked, as a crease appeared between her eyebrows.

"I don't like it when you hide things from me."

Not for the first time, Kíli wished Billa were healthier, so it wouldn't be necessary to hide her (and her condition) from his wife. Tauriel's own condition was... precarious. Elrond had taken care to warn Kíli about this elven ability to delay birthing, because Tauriel's children were larger than elflings of the same age, and it might harm her if the birth was delayed too long. All the same, he couldn't bring himself to ignore Billa when she was in such a state, and so he divided his time between his pregnant wife and his pregnant aunt, wishing there was a different way to do this.

"I don't like it either, Taur', but that's the way it has to be right now. I'm stepping out for some air, I'll be back in an hour or two, alright?"

Tauriel subsided with a half-nod, slumping back once more into the chair. Kíli felt a pang of guilt, but tried to brush it off. Billa needed him right now. More than his wife did.

The hobbit was still in a bad way, lost somewhere between sleeping and waking, but Kíli could have sworn she sensed his presence. Twice now, he'd felt a faint squeeze of her hand. Once, she'd twitched, mumbling his uncle's name.

Elrond's campaign against the Orc assailants was taking longer than any had guessed. It was clear these war-bands had been well-prepared, and were not the usual, witless scum the elf lord had driven from his lands with apparent ease. They were particularly good at hiding and ambushing, a tactic that had claimed more than a few of Elrond's fighting force. Or so said the reports, since the elf lord himself had not returned.

The Elven healers who treated Billa said she was best left to waken on her own, since to draw her from the deep, healing sleep they'd induced could be fatal for both her and her child. Waiting would never get any easier, but Kíli could be patient. It was the least he could do, since he'd been unable to join his uncle and brother in their search. The news brought by the elves who had parted company with the exile dwarf king was grave, but Kíli knew better than to count Thorin lost again. He'd been so certain before, and had been proven dead wrong.

"I'm back, Billa." Kíli took the halfling's clammy hand, clasping it between both of his own, as before. "I'm here." It was a small reassurance, but he felt it nonetheless  _ helped _ .

Billa seemed to stir slightly, but neither spoke nor opened her eyes. Kíli sighed, feeling the weight of despair settle on his shoulders. It was his responsibility, one way or another, to make sure Billa pulled through.

"Taur's a bit miffed with me," he told the hobbit, smiling self-consciously. "I haven't told her you're here. It could be bad for her, you know, to get stressed over something she can't change. But I keep going off and... I guess I'm not really being much use anywhere. I mean, I'm a good hand-warmer, but I've been thinking about getting you a muff. Maybe a matching hat to go with it." Kíli grinned, but it felt a little forced, and when Billa didn't laugh at his joke, he sighed.

He continued to talk, keeping his voice low, telling her about what he and Tauriel had been up to, about Ori's fascination with the elf's pregnancy, and Balin's friendship with an elf lady that specialized in studying runes. He wasn't sure what Dwalin did with his time, but whatever it was, it didn't make him happy.

He was still talking when he realized with a start that Billa's green-brown eyes were open a slit, glinting at him from under her eyelashes.

"Billa?" He scooted his chair over slightly, leaning forward to have a better look. She didn't reply, but it looked for all the world like she was watching him. He waved a hand before her face. She didn't track it.

Kíli sighed, his heart still thudding in his chest. Nothing after all. Wishful thinking. He skimmed a hand gently across the top of her curls, and it came to rest on her forehead. Clammy, like her palm, but not as hot as before.

"It's alright, Billa. You don't have to wake up for me." He shook his head, wavy hair bouncing lightly. "I wish Thorin were here. He'd know what to say." 

"Th- Thorin?" The word - like the faintest of echoes - was so weak, he wondered if he'd imagined it. She'd spoken before, but never as if in direct address. Always, before, it was as if she was still in the depths of delirium, convinced Thorin was in danger, calling out to warn him. He sat up again quickly, searching her face eagerly for any confirmation, any change.

"Thorin." This time, the name was a sigh, more distinct than before. There was the faint squeeze of her fingers again, and some of the tense lines in Billa's face eased, her eyes closing again. For a moment, this scared Kíli more than the days of no reaction at all, but then the halfling started to snore softly, and the dwarf let out a slightly hysterical giggle.

"She's sleeping," he observed to the empty air around her bed. Reassured that she hadn't decided to die, he settled back into his chair, chafing Billa's small hand between his own. What, he wondered, had just happened? She'd woken, a little bit - more than she had before - and asked for Thorin? No, she'd asked if he  _ was _  Thorin. Kíli giggled again, using his free hand to rub the thick scruff along his jaw. He'd been keeping it short for a couple weeks now. Out of respect, he told himself, but it was probably because Tauriel liked it better that way.

He'd have shaved it off altogether if he thought it might have eased her mood of late. Poor Tauriel. If there was a time he suspected she carried regrets concerning her marriage to him, it was now. A saddening thought, to be sure, but then, they'd both sacrificed much to be together. They would weather such times as ever they had. 

"You could have told me, Kíli." The dwarf's head turned sharply toward the voice. 

"Tauriel! You weren't... I was trying-" 

"To protect me. I know." The elleth smiled, and for the first time in a long while, the expression seemed peaceful. And genuine. She was supporting herself against the doorframe, and how she'd managed the many steps it took to reach this place, he didn't know. He got up, intending to offer her his chair, but she shook her head. "I'm fine, love. Not so far gone as you think." 

Kíli wasn't sure exactly how he felt about her words, but he couldn't stop himself from smiling. "Please come sit down. Since you're here, you might as well say hello to Billa." He extended a hand to his wife, inviting her to join him even as he looked over his shoulder at the halfling. "She woke up a little bit a minute ago. I think she thought I was Uncle, but I don't mind."

"I do." Tauriel's slender fingers wrapped around his hand and as he looked up at her, she lowered her head and kissed him. Surprise flushed through him, and he shivered slightly.

"Why?" he managed to ask, mind spinning.

"Because you're mine, and I don't want to share."

That surprised Kíli as much as the kiss. She'd been  _ jealous _ ? Had she had some suspicion he was visiting another all this time, some other elleth he'd managed to charm in his spare time? The thought seemed absurd, but jealousy, he supposed, wasn't always a rational vice. 

"I'm yours, Tauri. Always will be." He chuckled, pulling her in for another, gentler kiss. "There. Now Billa knows I'm  _ definitely _  not Thorin. He wouldn't be caught dead kissing an elf."

The elleth hummed her agreement, and finally gave in to Kíli's gentle tugging. She sat down, and the relieved sigh that escaped her was all Kíli needed to know he'd done the right thing. He stood beside her, their fingers tangled together and resting atop the tight, heavy dome of her belly. The silence between them was peaceful as they listened to Billa's quiet snoring.

"What happened to her?" Tauriel asked at length, and Kíli could hear her concern as well as see it in the slant of her eyebrows and the lines around her mouth.

"We don't know. She hasn't woken up enough to tell us."

"Where did they find her? Or did she make it here on her own?" 

"The outlying woods. She wasn't far from here, but," Kíli glanced at the hobbit wonderingly, "she was half-mad, rambling on about spiders. She ran at the elves waving a stick, poor lass." Kíli could feel Tauriel growing tense, and rubbed her back soothingly. "There weren't any. The healers think she ate some bad mushrooms, and-"

"Orcs in the Valley." Tauriel didn't seem to hear him. She shivered under his hand. "Spiders in the Greenwood. Bats from Gundabad. Can you blame her for seeing death and destruction everywhere?"

"Mushrooms," Kíli repeated. Tauriel seemed more distant, as though contemplating things she'd pushed from her mind of late. "The wounds she has wouldn't cause her to hallucinate like that." 

"Wounds?" The elleth snapped back to the present, sweeping her gaze over the hobbit's unconscious form. 

"Stab wounds. Three of them." 

Tauriel straightened slightly, shock and deep concern eclipsing her other emotions. With it, as her eyes lingered on the halfling, came another surprise. "Kíli, she's-" The dwarf nodded, smiling faintly.

"Yeah. Seems hobbits are sturdier than we thought. Both of them are fine." He could see Tauriel's wonderment, and felt it like a warm fire on a cold night. Her free hand stretched out and stroked Billa's rounded stomach. But even through the blankets, he knew she would feel the bandages.

"She... they're both alright?" Her voice shook slightly. Kíli gave her hand a squeeze.

"They're both healing up fine. The healers say she should wake up soon." Of course, the healers had been saying she should have already been awake, but he wasn't about to say that.

Tauriel turned a skeptical look on him. "You're keeping things from me again." 

Kíli swallowed, guilt plain on his face. "I was trying to be optimistic." 

"The healers tried to wake her?" 

"Said this sort of sleep lasts as long as it's needed. Something about giving the body time to focus its energy on restoring itself." Kíli shrugged. "I don't really know the healing jargon." 

"It's common elven practice," Tauriel assured him. "Elves who have taken deadly hurt often lapse into such a state on their own, once the greatest danger has passed." 

Kíli straightened the blanket edge where it had curled over on itself, glancing up at his wife. "Do they all wake, eventually?"

Tauriel nodded without hesitation, then paused and added, "If the hurt isn't too serious." Kíli understood that she was being honest and not sparing him, the way she wished to be treated, but the qualifier still made him wince. Seeking to change the subject, he looked at his wife with perhaps slightly more interest than he felt.

"So if this is common, have you done it?"

The red-haired elleth gave him a faintly amused look. "Once. Legolas and I had gone hunting, and the prey was more aggressive than we'd expected. There was a lot of running and dodging... and I discovered a gulch where we thought there wasn't one." Her ear-tips were pink, but she was still smiling.

"You  _ fell? _ " Despite the experience of the last few weeks, Kíli found that very hard to believe. Tauriel didn't just  _ fall. _  It took significant outside influence - he checked himself there and chuckled at himself. Silly, how the twins were an 'outside influence.'

"Even elves make mistakes." The elleth shrugged self-effacingly. "Legolas stayed with me through the night, afraid to move me once he realized I'd gone to the healing sleep. I woke sometime the next day, swaddled in his cloak, head cushioned on leaves." She chuckled lightly. "I remember I was very confused, but stable. Vague snatches of dreams I'd had during the sleep stayed with me, but I'm not sure I recall them well now. Just... faces. People who made me feel safe. Family. Friends. Legolas." 

Kíli felt an intense stab of jealousy, but tried to brush it away. He would never really feel comfortable with Tauriel talking about Legolas - at least, he didn't think he would. It was ridiculous, because he knew his beloved was loyal to a fault... but again, jealousy wasn't reasonable. So instead of scowling, he took a leaf out of Tauriel's book and kissed her instead.

The kiss lasted a breathless handful of moments, and then Tauriel pulled away, clearly puzzled. "Are you alright, love?" 

"I'm fine." Kíli studied her face momentarily, the glow of her skin, the smooth symmetry of her features, the curve of her lips. Wisdom and experience in her every fiber. That she was _h_ _ is _  had never ceased to amaze him. He often felt... undeserving. Especially in such reminders that the youth of her body belied the centuries she had seen, the long friendships she had had. He could never be Legolas. He could only ever be the one she had chosen. And that, he hoped, was enough. 

Tauriel chuckled at his long, appreciative stare. "Why are you looking at me like that, Kee?"

"Because there's nothing else I would rather see, every day for the rest of my life." Kíli hadn't actually meant to say that out loud, but it had happened, and its effect was immediate. Tauriel's ears flushed pink again, and her green eyes softened, arched brows pulling down slightly as her mouth curved in a quiet, content smile.

The words she murmured were in Elvish, but it would have been hard to mistake their tone. 'I love you' seemed to sound the same no matter what language it was in.

Kíli opened his mouth to reply, but Tauriel's gaze flicked away from him, past him to the door. A curious mixture of irritation and embarrassment coursed through him as he turned. Of course, they would be interrupted  _ now _ . But when he saw who stood in the doorway, his irritation was forgotten.

"Lord Elrond!"

The elf lord looked nearly haggard, but by his damp hair and fresh robes, Kíli could guess he'd arrived recently, and been prevailed upon to look after himself before tending to his patient. It was only then that the dwarf realized their host looked rather flushed, nearly embarrassed.

"My apologies for intruding. It was... not intentional."

Any remnant of ill will evaporated when the elf lord spoke. He sounded utterly contrite, and it was clear he was acutely aware of the intimacy of the moment he'd interrupted. It made Kíli suspect the same had happened to him at least once.

"We understand, Lord Elrond," murmured Tauriel. "Please, don't stop on our account."

Though the elf still seemed uncomfortable, he entered the room and moved to Billa's bedside, eyeing the halfling's burgeoning stomach with some amount of surprise.

"With all his many words, the healer failed to mention that," he mused. The elf lord rested his hand on her forehead gently, brushing his sleeve aside. Kíli very quickly became aware of the silence in the room. It seemed, somehow, thicker, filled with tension. Billa did not move, her breathing slow and shallow. Elrond's eyes were closed in deep concentration. Tauriel squeezed her husband's hand, and together they waited. 

Finally, the tension eased. Elrond withdrew his hand, shaking his head wonderingly. "If I had not sensed it myself, I would not have believed it possible." 

Kíli straightened, glancing between Elrond and the unconscious halfling. "What do you mean? What's wrong with her?" The elf lord hesitated for the space of a sigh, folding his arms uncertainly. "She lingers on the edge of wakefulness, as you have seen. But her mind is far away. She searches for him." His brow creased, and he turned his gaze on Billa again. "Her One. She is so determined in her search - so desperate - that she has created something of her own reality within her mind. She believes he is in danger, and is trying to save him." 

Kíli resisted the impulse to shrug. "Isn't she just... dreaming?" 

Elrond shook his head. "No. It is more than that. But I cannot tell you how  _ much _  more. I do not fully understand it myself." His frown deepened suddenly, as though he'd thought of something troubling. "Her ring. The one Gandalf said she'd found in the tunnels. Where is it?" 

Kíli looked puzzled. "It's here. Brought it up a few days ago." He got up, moving to a spindly-legged dresser on the opposite side of the bed. "Uncle was all in a frenzy when he got here," he explained, reaching into the top drawer and retrieving a small bundle of cloth, "but he had it wrapped up like he was afraid to touch it. Told me to hide it. Not to look at it. Said to give it to you when you returned from dealing with the orcs." 

Elrond's hands were steady as he took the bundle, but Kíli could see the tendons standing out in his wrists as he unfolded the ragged leather that protected the little gold thing. As soon as it was uncovered, a shadow seemed to fall over the room. It was a perfect circle, flawless, without blemish or scratch, unadorned and beautiful. But Elrond's expression was grim as he looked down at the precious thing. Swiftly, the elf covered the ring again.

Kíli was somewhat alarmed. "So it  _ is _  dangerous, then? I thought Uncle was just being his usual paranoid self." 

Elrond nodded, holding the little wad of fabric away from his body as though, snakelike, it might strike at him. "I am beginning to believe it has properties we had not before guessed."

"What kind of properties?" Tauriel asked, sinking back in the chair with a slight wince. Kíli could see she was getting tired. Rather than answer, Elrond turned to Kíli again. "How long has it been in this room? You didn't... take it near her, did you?" 

Kíli lowered his gaze guiltily. "I... I didn't think it was dangerous. I thought it might comfort her, having it again. She used to hold it a lot, like a talisman." He exchanged a glance with Tauriel, noticing that the elf lord stiffened slightly at this revelation. "Like my runestone. I didn't think...." 

Tauriel's green eyes fell on him now with a measure of shock. "You...  _ gave _  it to her? Don't you remember what happened? You were there when I returned it to her in your uncle's bedchamber!"

Kíli felt as though he weren't fit to crawl under a rock, he was so guilty. He'd never felt so mean and small in his entire life. "I... forgot," he muttered, unable to look Tauriel in the eye. Now that she reminded him, he couldn't imagine how he could have possibly forgotten such a thing. Billa lunging to get the ring, hurting Thorin in the process.... It had been completely out of character for her, and afterward, she'd acted as though she hadn't been in control of herself.

When he worked up the courage to look at Tauriel again, he saw her regarding the bundle in Elrond's hand with intense distrust.

"I didn't let her hold it long," Kíli offered, meekly. "It got a reaction out of her, which I thought was progress, at first. She moved her head, and mumbled something about Thorin. Then there was this... look." He shook his head, remembering. "She seemed really upset. I took it back, then. Covered it up. Didn't think much of it, until now." 

Lord Elrond nodded, finally tucking the ring away into his robes. "I will see this is put somewhere safe, for the time being. Give me a few hours to search the contents of my library." He glanced at Billa. "She is stable, for now. I will return as soon as I know more."

Kíli watched the elf leave, then sighed and checked on his wife. She looked uncomfortable and tired, and the crease between her eyebrows had reappeared, making her seem severe or very frustrated, though he knew that neither was the case.

"Come on, love," he murmured. "You're tired. I'll help you back to our rooms." Though she muttered halfhearted protests, it was fairly easy to prevail on her. Together, they made their way back to their chambers. The walk was longer than he remembered.

Ori was sitting outside their door, knitting in silence. She glanced up as they approached and smiled, though she didn't put down her project. It looked like a scarf, but it was too wide.

The dwarrowdam made her usual inquiries concerning Tauriel's wellbeing, and Tauriel gave her usual replies. The conversation turned, once again, to the twins, and whether or not any names had been discussed. 

"Lad." Kíli turned at the voice, and saw Balin standing in the doorway of the adjoining room. He took a few steps toward the older dwarf, leaving the two females to chat. 

"How is she?" Balin lowered his gaze slightly, as though he felt the subject was secret. "Billa." 

Kíli sighed, a resurgence of guilt playing across his features. "She's stable. That's what Lord Elrond said." 

"Good." Balin nodded, though Kíli thought he didn't look more than a little relieved. It was clear there was a lot weighing on the old dwarf's mind. Much of it he wouldn't burden anyone but himself with. 

"Where's Dwalin?" Kíli glanced into the room in case the answer to that question lurked just around the doorframe, but the space was empty. 

Balin shrugged, shaking his head with what seemed a tired chuckle. "He won't listen to reason. He's always been a hardhead. And a sulk, when he has a mind to be." 

"He's still upset about being left behind?" 

"Upset?" Balin sighed. "I don't think he's been sober enough to be much of  _ anything _ , lad." 

Kíli raised his eyebrows, the extent of Dwalin's dejection made painfully clear. "Didn't realize he took it so hard."

"Brother's always been close enough to Thorin to rescue him when things got nasty... I can't say as I blame him, but I wish he had more sense." Balin's gaze shifted toward a window, and he sighed.

"Well, where'd you see him last? Maybe we can go talk to him." Kíli was already entertaining thoughts of redeeming himself for his blunder with the ring, but Balin shook his head.

"The last time I saw him was almost a week ago, and he wasn't in any state to be talked to."

"A  _ week _ _?_ " Concern welled up in Kíli's chest, his limbs tensing. "Balin, you don't think he's-"

The old dwarf waved an arm dismissively. "Ah, not to worry, laddie. Dwalin has more sense than that. He won't do himself in while his oath to Thorin holds."

"I saw him yesterday," Tauriel offered, having evidently concluded her conversation with Ori. "I was sitting outside by the river. He walked past, following the bank, and didn't once look up. I noticed he wasn't limping as badly as he was before."

"He's been allowing the healers to treat him. Took a good bit to persuade him." Balin folded his arms across his chest. Kíli still wasn't used to seeing him with so short a beard. It was now only half as long as it had been, despite the many months since it had been shorn. Balin didn't speak of it, and when pressed, had only provided the most basic of details. Kíli had noticed scarring on his neck, too, when he turned in particular ways. Very subtle. Faint white lines that didn't seem to add up to much. He'd seen the same on Thorin, and was also unable to decipher any clear meaning to them, other than that they'd been inflicted at around the same time.

_ "Ah, laddie. Best not to speak of it." _  He could still hear Balin's reply, the first time he'd asked, the distinct sadness and reticence of the old dwarf's tone.  _ "I'd just as soon forget." _

Tauriel's voice pulled him back to the present. "I thought of calling a greeting, but he seemed very deep in his own thoughts."

Balin nodded. "He's mourning, in his own way. He'll be alright, once he's had his time. Not an easy thing, feeling as though he's lost his use."

The elleth's eyes deepened as Kíli watched her. "I know. I have walked such paths myself."

Her tone was so sad, so distant, that Kíli couldn't help but reach over and put his hand on her arm. As though he wanted to call her back to him, remind her that she wasn't useless, he gave her hand a squeeze. Tauriel glanced at him and a faint smile curved her soft lips.

"Dwalin's never been one to talk. If he ever shows the inclination, though, I'd be grateful to ya." Balin bowed his white head, and the elleth returned the gesture.

"It would be an honor."

"In the meantime, lass, you look tired. Rest yourself." Balin's word, as kindly meant as they were, had the immediate effect of bringing out Tauriel's stubborn streak. Her smile became crooked, as though she faced a challenge and wouldn't back down.

"Thank you for your concern," she began, in that 'I'm fine and you don't need to worry about me' tone, but Kíli interrupted her before she could get any further.

"Taur', could I have a minute?"

When she looked down at him in surprise, he jerked his head toward the door to their chambers. She followed him a step or two before leaning down (not the easiest maneuver for her anymore) and looking straight into his eyes.

"I know what you're trying to do," she assured him, but again before she could continue, he interrupted her - this time with a kiss. He felt her stiffen in surprise, and was deeply gratified when she swayed slightly, the muscles in her arms and shoulders relaxing under his hands. 

Without another word, she pulled him inside, and shut the door behind them. What followed was passionate, and left Kíli's head fuzzy and his knees weak. He hadn't realized she was so ravenous for affection. When at last he and Tauriel collapsed on the bed, he was practically gasping, and she was still intently fixing him with breathless kisses.

"You're... full of surprises," he admitted, somewhat overwhelmed. She hadn't been so desperately keen on him since... he couldn't really remember. And he couldn't imagine why. 

Her lips hovered over his exposed collarbone as she answered. When he'd lost his tunic, he wasn't entirely sure, but his loose cotton shirt had a wider neck and she was taking full advantage of it.

"I'm full of a lot of things, love."

Kíli shuddered, the feeling of her lips moving against his exposed skin more than he could handle. It felt like his brain was unraveling, his world narrowing to the elleth beside him.

"Not going to argue," he breathed, and ran his fingers through her hair. "We can... ask for our dinner...." He grasped for words as Tauriel chuckled throatily.

"Definitely too tired for dinner," she agreed, and captured his lips with her own.

Later, when Kíli regained some semblance of the ability to think, he reflected on all that had happened - all that had changed. Tauriel was asleep now, he could tell by her deep breathing. No doubt she would wake soon, as inevitably happened nowadays, but it did him good to know she was so completely relaxed. The dwarf rolled out of bed, fighting against legs that felt like they were made of jelly as he dressed and made his way out onto the balcony.

The late evening sun painted the valley in shades of red, orange, and deep shadow. It was from this vantage that he saw a squat figure on a horse, tearing into the valley with all speed. Two more riders swept in behind the first, and in contrast, it became obvious that the first was a dwarf, the others being taller and more slender, better proportioned to the steeds they rode. 

Kíli rushed back into the room, threw on his tunic, smoothed his hair, and jogged out the front door, quickly conquering the various stairs and landings until he reached the causeway connecting Elrond's house with the rest of the Valley. His mind had raced all the while. Who was the dwarf? Why was he alone? What did it mean?

One of those questions was quickly answered when the three horses had crossed the arching stone path. The dwarf rider quickly proved a _she_ , rather than a _he_ , and was the dwarrowdam that had accompanied Thorin into Rivendell and Billa and Gandalf were revealed as lost.

"Prince Kíli," she greeted him, bowing in the saddle. Both she and the horse were out of breath, and there was foam on the beast's heaving sides.

"Where's Thorin?" Kíli began to fear the worst. After what the elves who had returned had reported - Thorin determined to avenge Billa, grief-mad and reckless - was it this latest danger that had claimed the indomitable dwarven king? But Fíli. Surely _Fíli_  wouldn't have so carelessly thrown away his life, not with his One in Rivendell awaiting his safe return. _And his brother_. He liked to think Fíli would stay alive on _his_  account, too. He hadn't been completely replaced. 

"On his way to Isengard." Ginii swung out of her saddle and stumbled a little as her boots touched the unmoving earth. "I need to speak with Lord Elrond. Prince Kíli, will you come?"

Recognizing the question as both an invitation and a request, Kíli nodded firmly.

"This way," said one of the elves, while the other took the winded horses and began walking toward the stable.

Causeways and stairs and paths seemed to blur together as Kíli's mind tied itself in knots, trying to guess what had sent Ginii racing back to the Valley while the others were on their way - where? Isengard? The name rang a bell, but Kíli couldn't put his finger on it.

"Why-?" he began, but Ginii shook her head, wild beard rasping stiffly against her armor. It seemed to be stained with blood, though it was too dark to be fresh.

"I'd rather only tell the tale once, my prince."

It seemed both a short span and an eternity before they were standing in front of the wan elf lord, whose eyebrows were lowered like thunderheads over clear, wise eyes.

"You bear evil news, my lady. Please, speak it quickly."

Ginii sighed, and pulled from her belt a ragged length of bloodstained grey cloth that Kíli didn't recognize at first.

"We found this in the forest, but there was no sign of orcs nearby. In the bushes some distance away, we also found this." From the pouch hanging beside her belt knife, she produced a gold ring, which burned red in the light of the setting sun. 

It was only after Elrond's face grew deathly pale that Kíli recognized what he was seeing. The length of grey cloth... was a robe. And not just any robe. He'd seen it a thousand times and more, though never this torn and dirty, its various pleats and gathers still vaguely visible where it had been shaped about the shoulders.

"Gandalf," he whispered quietly, heart plummeting like a stone down through watery depths.

"It cannot be." Kíli hadn't known Elrond long, but he felt the elf lord's voice couldn't have sounded more devastated if he'd just learned of the death of one of his own children. He took the ring from Ginii, and Kíli noticed a flash like blue fire on one of the elf lord's fingers.

"Vilya confirms it, then," Elrond said, lowering his head. "The bearer of Narya has fallen. An evil day, this. Mithrandir has met his end, and we do not know by whose hand."

"Yes, we do." All eyes turned on Ginii again, and there was deep conviction in her face. "And I've a feeling none of you will like it." 

"Who was it? How do you know?" Kíli could hardly contain himself. Ginii's gaze slid over him and fixed on Elrond's face. She looked very grave as she took a deep breath and spoke in an authoritative tone.

"It was Saruman the White. My king is sure of it." She explained what Thorin had told the others - the burns on the horse and on Gandalf's robes, the injuries sustained by Saruman, the words of the orc that had told them Billa was dead.

Elrond seemed incredulous at first, but the more evidence Ginii presented, the more Kíli could see the elf lord, too, connecting the necessary points. 

"If Saruman has, indeed, betrayed his own, he is not who we thought him. Not by half." Elrond shook his head. "I was blind to all the signs, secure in my trust. Gandalf's death is on my head." 

"It doesn't matter who's to blame, my lord. What matters is what we do _now_." Kíli shouldn't have been surprised that Tauriel had followed him; all the same, he jumped at her sudden voice at his shoulder, clear and full of conviction. 

"Azungal, you're supposed to be resting!" He was glad she felt well enough that she was up and about, but at the same time, it worried him. His hand brushed against the side of her massively swollen belly as he reached for her hand, and he saw her shiver.

"This is more important." Again, that ringing confidence, though softer than before.

" _Nothing_  is more important than you and our children." Kíli was surprised by how fiercely the words came out. He hadn't known his conviction ran so deep. Tauriel's eyes narrowed, and her face acquired a sharp, dangerous look. Like a hungry cat.

"Nothing, not my life or those of my family, is worth more than the fate of the world. You, of all people, should know that."

Kíli felt thoroughly chastened. She was right, of course, though he hadn't exactly been put in a position where his choice was between the fate of his family and... everyone else. Not so directly, anyway. Not so _neatly_.

He subsided with lowered head. It was difficult, this learning to trust Tauriel to know her own limits.

"And what is your proposal, my lady?" Elrond was asking.

Tauriel's jaw was grimly set, her face still fixed with catlike focus. "First, to determine what the Wizard is planning."

"Gandalf was the truest friend of the Free Peoples," the elf lord said gravely, his tone touched by grief. "His murder is an assault upon us all. If Saruman has slain him, I fear it means no less than... the domination of Middle-earth." 

Kíli couldn't stop the shudder that raced down his spine. The last time he'd heard the word "domination" it had been in a history lesson, and Balin had been talking about a war that had taken place many years before either of them were born. Something to do with 'forces of evil' he couldn't put a name to anymore.

"How long, my lord, before Billa will wake, do you think?" Tauriel's voice was as calm as ever, but Elrond's expression betrayed his troubled thoughts.

"It could be a day or two, it could be a week. She seems to be recovering, but when she will wake, only she knows."

"She may be able to tell us for certain who is responsible for Gandalf’s death. Thorin is convinced it was Saruman," she nodded to Ginii in acknowledgement, "but he has been mistaken in the past."

Kíli saw Elrond beginning to shake his head, but Ginii made a noise of surprise in her throat.

"Billa? You mean the halfling? She's alive?" 

The confirmation and explanation took less than a minute, and left the dwarrowdam whistling in wonder. "Mahal's hammer. If only Thorin knew."

"We could send riders after him," Kíli suggested, anxiety besieging him once more. In his current frame of mind, there was no telling what Thorin might do. Attacking Isengard - Saruman's stronghold - seemed about as mad as anything he'd yet endeavored. Then again, many had said the same of the Quest of Erebor.

"They would not overtake him in time, Prince." Elrond clasped his hands before him, seeming uncertain. "Alas, we haven't time to include your uncle in our calculation; any help I might have given him is too far away to be of use."

He turned back to the door of his study. "I will seek the source of Miss Baggins' malady, in hopes we might wake her without causing her harm. She seems to be the most expedient route to finding out the truth. From there, a viable course of action may become apparent." 

Kíli was briefly tempted to follow him, to see Billa again, but Tauriel's hand on his arm stopped him before he took even a step. A glance at her revealed a strained expression, and he immediately lost any desire to leave her.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I need to know I can trust you, Kee." Her voice was hushed, but full of tension. Kíli felt the words like a blow.

"Of course you can. You know that."

"No, Kíli - if you have to choose between saving me and fighting against this evil, I need to know you'll choose the right thing. I will not raise my children in a world covered in shadow. I would rather die first."

Kíli had to fight the dull ache beginning at the base of his throat. He moved a small step closer, taking her hand once more. "Tauriel, I... I wish you wouldn't-"

"Promise me, Kíli."

The young dwarf swallowed heavily, aware of the others' eyes on him. She turned his hand over gently, firming her grip on it. As though she were testing him somehow, divining the honesty of the response he had yet to give.

"I... promise," he said at last, and couldn't have said whether his voice issued as a half-sob, or coherent speech. This was one of those moments when he wasn't sure he really knew the person he'd married. This… pained him deeply.

Tauriel let out a soft sigh of relief, and bent her head toward him until her forehead pressed against his hair. Her grip on his hand became more akin to one who wished not to let go, rather than one who wished to prevent him from escaping. How he could tell the difference, he wasn't sure, but it comforted him.

"I will stay here, where we are safest. I promise. I don't want you to have to make that choice. Some things just... can't be predicted. I wanted to be sure." He could tell she wanted him to understand, but the pain of the promise he'd made, the unyielding weight of it, left him no room for comfort.

"I understand."

He gave her hands a squeeze, then turned slightly to look at Ginii, who was watching them. The dwarrowdam seemed completely unabashed at having been caught observing this painfully intimate moment, but blinked curiously at him.

"You've got a strong heart. I envy you that." Ginii's thick beard twitched a little, her eyes crinkling in a smile. "You're lucky to have him."

Tauriel huffed softly, as though she were considering indulging in amusement, but hadn't the energy for it. "I know." 

It did Kíli's heart good to see Tauriel smile, especially after the latest exchange. Now he wanted something to do, anything to avoid more standing around, feeling useless. "Maybe we should get something to eat." He caught Ginii's eye. "You want to join us?"

"If you can feed me an' show me a place to lie down awhile, I'd be grateful." The dwarrowdam gave him a rueful smile. "I rode fast and hard ta get here, and there wasn't much time for food or sleep."

"Then let's see it done."

The meal was a small one, and quiet. Kíli refrained from asking too many questions, and Tauriel seemed tired, as she usually was these days. Ginii was impressed by Tauriel, and spoke with her sporadically as they ate - it was unusual to see a dwarf interacting with an elf without even a hint of bias. That, he decided, was something he would investigate later, after they'd had a chance to rest.

The cool air teased his hair away from his face, a night breeze springing up as full dark fell and servants quietly lit lanterns and torches throughout the Valley. Kíli escorted Tauriel and Ginii to the guest quarters. Once the dwarrowdam was settled, he urged Tauriel to rest as well.

"What about you?" She looked at him intently, and Kíli sighed.

"I'm going to go check on Billa once more before I sleep. I wouldn't feel right if I didn't."

The halfling remained as before, still, quiet, and swaddled in blankets. The attendant healer sat in the corner, face illumined by a single candle on the dresser. He looked up from a beautifully embossed and filigreed tome as Kíli entered, and nodded in acknowledgement before burying his nose in the pages again. 

"Must be an interesting book," Kíli mused, settling into the chair beside Billa's bed. The halfling's fingers twitched as he spoke, curling and uncurling on the blanket. Kíli straightened in surprise. The healer's book snapped shut as the elf leapt to his feet (how he'd noticed the subtle movement, Kíli didn't know), flame guttering in his wake. 

"That's- that's the first she's moved since you left."

Kíli felt a mixture of excitement and importance. Billa reacted for _him_ and for no one else. On the other hand, he was just happy she was reacting at all. The halfling grasped his hand as he wrapped his fingers around hers, and after a moment, turned her head with a soft moan. The healer sent hurriedly for Elrond while Kíli moved closer to the head of the bed.

"Billa? How're you feeling?" The dwarf patted her hand, chafing her fingers to warm them. "Open your eyes, Billa. Come on. You can do it."

It seemed a great struggle, but she did indeed open her eyes. Billa blinked at Kíli, seeming to have a hard time focusing on him.

"Thorin?"

Kíli shook his head. "No. Not Thorin. It's me. It's Kíli." Billa's face - despite its confusion - had carried a certain expectancy. A certain relief. All that vanished as her eyes seemed to confirm his words. 

"K- Kíli?" 

The young dwarf nodded, leaning in closer, heart thudding heavily. He squeezed her hands reassuringly, hoping to offer some form of comfort in the face of her obvious disappointment. 

"Wh- where's Thorin?" she asked weakly, barely able to lift her head from the pillow. "He was here. He was... just here."

"He's safe. Don't worry. He's got Fíli with him - Fíli wouldn't let anything happen to Uncle." His assurances didn't seem to settle Billa's fear at all. She turned her head against the pillow, scanning the room feverishly.

"Where?" she mumbled, then paused when her gaze lighted on the elf standing at the foot of her bed. The healer's sleeves nearly covered his hands as he moved forward and touched her forehead.

"In the house of Elrond. Rest at ease now, little one."

The words, low and soothing, affected the hobbit visibly. She blinked slowly, fighting sleep, the tension easing out of her shoulders.

"Kíli... he made it, didn't he? Thorin... was coming here."

"He's not, Billa. He was looking for you." Kíli wasn't sure how much he should tell her. How much was safe to tell her. He made motions for the healer to get Lord Elrond, and the elf seemed to understand, leaving the room quickly. He'd turned away for a moment to watch the elf go, and when he looked back, he was surprised to see Billa sitting up more, as though gripped by sudden urgency. 

"Where is he?!" she said, her voice stronger, harsh with fear. "Take me to him. Please, Kíli. He's in danger. I know ."

"Whoa, Billa, calm down. We'll send word to him as soon as-" She didn't give Kíli a chance to finish, but shouted her original question, growing quickly hysterical. She even tried to get out of bed, though she hardly even had the strength to push back the blankets.

Kíli put his hands on her shoulders and prayed Thorin would forgive him as he pushed Billa back into the pillows. Elrond nearly sprinted into the room as the halfling howled in protest.

"He's going to kill him! Kíli, you have to take me to him! We have to stop the Wizard! He wants the ring!"


	28. Fíli; Breaking and Entering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Co. reach Orthanc and learn more than they wanted to about the tangled state of affairs. How much can one dwarf take before he breaks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bows down at your feet* I'm so so so so SO sorry for vanishing off the face of the earth. I could make all the excuses in the world, but it wouldn't change a thing, so instead, here's the next chapter. Our production has slowed down a lot, but we are reaching the climax here, so will wrap up this story (hopefully) before Spring rolls 'round again for the Pacific Northwest. 
> 
> Expect another chapter in 2 weeks for the 15th of October, and a proper update on the state of affairs then.

Nearly hidden from sight by the thick foliage above, a dark tower loomed against the fading daylight. The sight of it made Fíli nervous, but that might have been because he knew what Thorin had planned.

"Isengard," he mused, shaking his blond head slightly.

"Actually, the tower itself is called Orthanc."

Fíli sighed. It felt like he was forever doomed to being corrected and ordered about by elves. He glanced at the elf beside him, who shrugged with a crooked smile.

"Ignorance makes the world simpler in some ways." Perhaps Fíli was a little bitter, but the observation prompted the elf to roll his eyes, and he didn't comment.

Together, they turned back toward the camp. Thorin had ordered them to settle early in order to form a plan of action for approaching the tower.

That seemed to be the pursuit in which his uncle and one of the elven scouts were engaged, as they discussed in quiet tones what was known of Isengard's defenses, and where Saruman was likeliest to be within them. The others looked on, seldom speaking. It was clear most felt out of their depth, knowing next to nothing about the Wizard or his dwelling place. The female scout, as it happened, had taken messages to Saruman in the past, and therefore had a decent knowledge of the fortress's layout, as well as other potentially critical information.

"The front entrance wasn't guarded when last I came here, " she said softly. "In fact, I saw no guards at all. He had some servants, but they were not armed that I could see, and their numbers were few."

"That may have changed." Thorin rubbed his beard with one hand. It had been been a long time since he'd trimmed it. Though he'd had the opportunity in Rivendell, apparently it hadn't been very high among his priorities. "It'd be wise to send a scout to get a look at the place today, before it gets too dark."

"I'll go." The dark-haired male elf bowed slightly, then turned on light feet, trotting away. Thorin looked after him for a moment, then his blue gaze shifted to Fíli.

"What else needs done before we can make our move?"

Fíli hesitated, glancing about to ensure Thorin wasn't talking to someone else, and when he saw no one close enough, still indicated himself questioningly. Thorin nodded and gestured impatiently for his nephew to come closer.

"Yes, yes, you. My heir needs to be able to think strategically, as well as practically."

"Well, I..." Fíli hesitated once more, the pressure of the question multiplied by the title that followed it. _Heir_. It had always been in his future, of course. Even as a dwarrow, he'd known it lay in wait. Always far off, though. Far in the distant and nebulous future. In recent months, he'd felt the weight of it. Even if it was never quite real. Never quite accepted or assumed. "I think it would be best to take stock of what we know about Saruman." Fíli kept his gaze focused slightly beyond Thorin to avoid staring at his boots. The expectant silence was discomfiting. Being put on the spot, especially in front of the elves... it wasn't as if his uncle had simply asked a question. It was formal, and would be scrutinized more harshly. It would reflect on them both. He fumbled a little, after that, working to make sense of his tangling trains of thought. "We, er... we don't know whether or not he... whether we have the element of surprise. Gandalf underestimated him, I think." He recovered quickly, though, surprising himself with how readily the required mentality returned. "We should have a contingency plan, I think, in case he's already been alerted to our presence. One we can quickly fall back on once we know either way."

Thorin nodded deeply, his gaze thoughtful. The elleth beside him nodded also.

"If only we knew _why_ he was doing these things, we'd have a better chance at predicting him."

" 'If only' never helped anyone accomplish anything," reprimanded Thorin, then indicated for Fíli to come sit beside him. The blond hadn't known it was possible to feel simultaneously honored and nervous enough to get sick (or run away). He moved forward and took a seat beside his uncle, and the moment settled over them with the weight of ceremony.

The weight didn't lift as they planned, and the grueling task seemed more and more like a test. Ideas were offered by any of the three, and torn apart by the other two, eviscerated and dissected until all that was left was what was practical and applicable. It was exhausting, but in the end, they had two complete, workable plans.

"Uncle, did you do this with Balin and Dwalin before we entered the Mountain?" Fíli had always regarded the venture as somewhat ill-conceived, and wondered whose idea it had been. _Send the hobbit into the Mountain to find the Arkenstone while we wait outside._

Thorin surprised him with a faint, grim chuckle. "There was no need. Our options were so limited that there were only two workable plans, and one required an army."

Fíli had to grin at that. "Sending a hobbit to face a dragon doesn't seem like a 'workable plan.' Never really did."

Thorin shrugged. "All is well that ends so." Fíli thought it would be reassuring to know they'd one day be saying the same about this venture.

"Pre-dawn, then," Thorin said, standing. "I will take the first watch. Make your weapons ready, and get what sleep you can."

The male elf returned as darkness began to descend in earnest. He consulted with Thorin, and Fíli was close enough to hear as he shifted his bedroll around until it laid relatively flat on the pine needles.

"No guards that I could see, but evidence of a large host in the area recently."

"How large?"

"A few hundred at most. Heavy prints, large boots. Orcs, it looks like."

"And the tower?"

"Closed up tight, but we may be able to gain entry yet. I saw lights in some of the lower windows, so there is someone within."

"Keep an eye on the windows," Thorin said. "Alert me if you see any movement." The elf's barely perceptible footfalls carried him past Fíli and off toward the tower once more. The blond wasn't sure what would happen if movement _was_ perceived in the windows. Would they begin sooner? And if there had been an Orcish force here at one time, who was to say whether there weren't more of the brutes lurking beyond the walls, out of sight. Fíli shifted in his blankets, certain he wouldn't sleep a wink. As he tossed and turned, he could hear the others settling in, clearly equally restless. What would the pre-dawn bring? Would they live to see the new sun? No one could say. Too many factors remained unknown to predict the outcome, and that made Fíli very nervous. Magic and wizardry weren't things he knew how to deal with; the enemies he'd faced before were vulnerable to the bite of his knives.

A Wizard? He didn't know. All he knew was his duty, and that, right now, was to his uncle and king. That meant risking that he wouldn't see Ori again this side of Mahal's halls. It wasn't easy to accept. But he knew, somehow, that she would understand. She'd have to.

The darkness around them continued to deepen until it was complete. Not even the sky bore witness to them - the moon and stars hid their faces behind a thick bank of cloud. No fire, no moonlight. If it weren't for the fitful breeze bringing the scent of green and growing things, then Fíli may have been able to pretend he was back in his room in Ered Luin, settling into sleep after a long day of lessons.

"Ye still awake, Fee?"

At first, Fíli thought he was losing his mind. Kíli wasn't here. Then he realized the question had carried a Blue Mountain burr. Bofur. Of course the miner would use his nickname. It bothered Fíli more than he wanted to admit. It was a special name. Bofur had no right.

"Yeah, I'm awake." Best not to address it. It wouldn't make much difference, and anyway, morale was low enough already.

"I'm... sorry, for doubtin' ye. Doubtin' Thorin. Ain't the first time I done it, and I'm not proud o' meself for it. Ye never steered us wrong, an' neither 'as yer uncle."

It took Fíli a moment to process these words, or at least, to speculate as to the motivation behind them. Did Bofur sense his doubts and wish to ease them? Was he merely seeking to clear his conscience before what he perceived might well be his death?

"It's... fine," the blond said finally. "I'm sure Thorin knew you didn't mean any of it."

Bofur was quiet for a space. Then he sighed. "Don't suppose we'll get any sleep anyway."

"I might," Fíli said peevishly, though he felt the same way.

"Sorry." Bofur seemed to have taken his meaning. "Just... didn't feel right, leavin' it like t'were."

The blond shifted on his bedroll. Part of him felt for the miner, compassion and understanding dominating that part of his reaction. It was hard to admit doubt, but even harder to acknowledge that the doubt had been foolish. The rest of Fíli, however, was just annoyed. Bofur had interrupted what he felt were very important thoughts, and worse, was stopping him from sleeping. But Ori wouldn't like that second reaction. She would tell him it was silly to think that way, and that it was always better to be open to understanding.

"I understand." Fíli nodded, wishing Ori were here to praise him for his effort.

In the dark, he could just see the gleam of Bofur's eyes to his right.

"Thank ye. It... means a lot."

Fíli grunted quietly, but the words had struck a chord. He lay awake and pondered them for a long time - at least, he assumed it was a long time, since there was no way to track the passing of the night without moon or fire.

When something finally happened, Fíli nearly jumped out of his skin. Either the elf was quieter at night than he remembered, or he'd been dozing.

"Movement in the southern window. Someone relighting the lanterns that had burned out."

Thorin's voice issued quietly, somewhere off to Fíli's left. It seemed little more than a tired rasp in the stillness. "Only one figure?"

"Just the one. Not the Wizard. Too short and slight."

"He didn't seem... concerned?"

"He wasn't moving quickly, but he leaned out the window a moment before he moved out of sight."

A brief pause, as Thorin seemed to consider. "Best not to chance it. We'll make our move now." The minimal camp was struck quickly and silently, and the group formed up as planned.

"Faervel will lead, as we discussed," Thorin said quietly. "When we have the 'all clear,' the rest will proceed. Stay alert, and listen for the signals."

Fíli gripped one of his many knives (elvish knives, his memory prompted him) and followed his uncle. He, the male elf, Nikû and Thorin were up front, because they had some skill with ranged weapons. Fíli wasn't sure when or where Thorin had obtained a bow, but he was decent with it when he chose to use it - which was almost never. They paused before the wall, deep shadow concealing them from prying eyes.

The gate, Fíli noticed, was little more than an open portal. Although the doors could have been closed in theory, there was a lot of forest debris built up around the hinges, which seemed to indicate if they _had_ been closed, it was a long time ago. A soft birdcall from up ahead gave them the all-clear they were waiting for, and in darkness and (relative) silence, the Company moved forward.

They were unopposed. All that greeted them as they moved between the shadows of the trees was cold air and the pale vapors of their breath. At length, the same birdcall rose again, though perhaps slightly quieter than before. Whether it was quieter because it was further away, or because some danger had been detected, Fíli didn't know. All he knew was the group pulled up short, no one daring even to whisper in speculation. In the sudden silence, Fíli made out the distinct sounds of arrows being loosed nearby, arrows finding their marks in yielding flesh. Snarls and startled grunts followed, off to their right.

"Hold," Thorin's voice ordered, barely audible. Faervel, if she'd been successful, would try to lead any more foes they encountered away from the tower, but they still didn't know how many lay in wait. A few guards, unwary and half-asleep, or a sizeable force, watchful and forewarned? The next few moments would provide the answer.

Silence grew heavier with each passing second, motionlessness harder to maintain. Then, close at hand, the birdcall, twice, and two low hoots, like a barn owl. Fíli shivered. Two enemies dispatched, and now the coast was clear again. The dwarves moved forward.

Coming upon the tower was startling, despite the fact that he'd known it would happen. The trees were thick and close-set, up until five yards from the tower's smooth, dark base. Three of the lower windows, well above Fíli's head, were lit with the orangey glow of hearth fires within.

Equally startling was how quickly and silently Faervel seemed to materialize out of the darkness before them, her bow at her side, an arrow undrawn, but ready on the string.

"Door locked," she said softly, "but all clear."

"Window?" Thorin whispered in reply.

"Too narrow."

"Keep watch, then. This will have to be quick. Glóin, Gimli, come." Fíli could see Thorin's form slip with surprising stealth around the perimeter of the tower, followed by the less nimble ginger and his son. The rest waited just before the sharply-edged corner of the carven black structure, as per prearranged orders. Silence.

Then there was a heavy clang, painfully loud, but quickly concluded. Fíli's heart leapt into his throat, but he knew at the same time his uncle had met with success. Working as a blacksmith in the world of Men for countless years _had_ granted its advantages. Faervel had spoken of the door almost certainly being of an older design, despite its Númenorian origins, one that Saruman, in his overconfidence, had not bothered to redesign since he'd taken up residence. The she-elf's memory was good; Thorin had said he felt confident he could dismantle it, with the aid of the others' strength.

"Let's go," Fíli whispered, rounding the corner.

The door was open now, golden light spilling onto the sward. It was conspicuous in the extreme, but they didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. Fíli hurried forward, ushering the others along with him.

"Inside," hissed Thorin, his eyes on the trees beyond. "Quickly."

The interior of the tower was as austere as the outside, nearly bare of comfort, all dark stone and sharp edges. How anyone could _live_ in a place like this was beyond him. Even the stone halls in Ered Luin had been full of beautiful carvings and colored lamps.

"Upstairs. I saw the boy heading toward the upper levels." Faervel indicated a doorway to their collective left. "You take the lead. We'll guard the door."

 _Boy?_ Fíli took a moment to process the elf's words. What was a boy doing in the tower? A servant? Was he running to warn his master?

"Come on!" Thorin charged up the curving stairway to the left, and now all silence and stealth were traded for speed as the somewhat ungainly group moved quickly up the high, stony steps. The next landing they reached revealed a somewhat smaller room, a bit less starkly furnished, walls piled almost waist-high with books, tomes, scrolls, and candles burnt down to waxy nubs. They searched the room quickly, but it was clearly empty. Returning to the stairway, they proceeded upward, passing several such rooms, some containing spare amounts of furniture, one featuring a locked door that was made short work of. It contained a carven wardrobe and a luxurious-looking bed, draped in furs. The wardrobe held a variety of underclothes and robes and richly-stitched boots, but sign of the boy who continued to elude them - or the Wizard.

"Keep moving," Thorin said, voice betraying some amount of exhaustion.

No longer rushing headlong toward the top of the tower, but advancing steadily, the group mounted the stairs once more. They received their first sign of life when, around the bend above them, someone yelped in fear and slammed a door. Thorin leapt forward, galvanized into action by the tantalizing possibility of answers.

He and Nikû reduced the door to splinters with a few well-placed blows of sword and ax, and they forced themselves through. A boy's yell of fear greeted them. Fíli followed, and found the room beyond to be half library, half living quarters, though not nearly as luxurious as the one below them. The candles, already burned to stubs in sheltered holders, sputtered pitifully, throwing off weak light and casting monstrous shadows on the walls.

" _You?_ " Thorin's voice was laden with a combination of betrayal and surprise as he lifted the boy out of hiding by his collar. He had swarthy skin and dark eyes too large for his narrow face, particularly now, ringed with white as he struggled to get free. Fíli frowned.

"Do you know this kid?" he asked, and glanced at Nikû, who wore such a grim expression he feared the lad might be killed on the spot.

"He traveled with us through Gondor, and claimed to be rejoining his family in Rohan. Clearly, he wasn't entirely truthful with us."

"Where is your master?" Thorin demanded darkly, and Fíli was gratified to see the lad squirming beneath the dagger-points of his uncle's gaze.

"Not here," he yelped, eyes darting between Thorin's blade and stormcloud that was the dwarf king's countenance. "You'd have seen him already... if he was."

"You lied to us before," Nikû said grimly, stepping closer, her knives flashing suddenly from their sheaths. "Will you give us the truth now, or shall I tickle it out of you?"

The boy's swarthy face paled to a sickly grey color and he tried in vain to wriggle free. "I'm telling the truth! He's gone! He took his Orcs and left day before yesterday."

"Why?" growled Nikû. "Why take his filthy army and leave now?"

"He said something about a hobbit and a ring, and kept muttering about a mountain. Honestly, I don't know anything else."

Fíli could sense more than see the increased tension pervading his uncle's features. _Hobbit_ was obvious... but ring? Whose ring? Certainly not... Billa's little golden ring. Kíli had mentioned something about it, a long while ago. Maybe she saw it as an irreplaceable memento of her journey. But why would Saruman want it?

He hadn't puzzled long before Thorin was shaking the boy like an understuffed rag doll. "I _know_ you know more than that. Don't take me for a fool. Why did he want the hobbit?"

The boy made a strangled whimpering sound, but answered quickly. "He said the hobbit knew where it was! He didn't tell me any more than that, I swear!"

Nikû put a hand on Thorin's shoulder, her eyes fixed on their traitor's young, pale face. "I can get the rest of the story if you give me a minute alone with him. He's a coward, and we need to move quickly."

Before they'd reached an agreement, though, a large raven fluttered through the open window and landed on a stack of books. There was a tightly-folded piece of parchment tied to its leg, and it cocked its head, one beady eye focused on Thorin. The raven croaked loudly and offered Thorin its leg, cackling and clacking its beak.

The noises it made seemed sounded, somehow, intelligible. For a second, Fíli almost thought he caught a word or two. But that was silly.

"He's been sent by Dain." Thorin's pronouncement caught Fíli off guard.

"How do you know that?"

The dwarf king lowered the squirming lad to the floor, shoving him back into Bofur. The hatted dwarf caught and held the boy, perhaps more gently than he deserved. Thorin sighed, looking a bit uncomfortable. "He... told me."

" _Told_ you?" Fíli knew he shouldn't have used quite so disbelieving a tone, but his self-control was somewhat less than it might have been. Thorin shot him a look that clearly translated to "you can stop talking now" as he carefully removed the note from the raven's leg. The bird was still cackling and cawing conversationally, and Fíli listened hard, but could only catch the occasional almost-word. He heard something that seemed to communicate distance, and something about food, but that was it.

If Thorin understood any more of the bird's chatter, he didn't say so. Instead, he unfolded the note and started to read, seeming not to care when the raven hopped up to perch on his shoulder. Fíli watched his uncle's eyes flick back and forth rapidly, reading faster than anyone had a right to, the tension in his shoulders and neck mounting until tendons stood out in sharp relief. By the time he shoved the missive at Nikû, he looked ready to tear the parchment into tiny pieces.

Nikû scanned the first few lines, then began to read aloud.

"I write on behalf of my people, the Dwarves of Erebor, concerning implications in your previous missive, which we found both intriguing and disturbing. While we understand that your support and influence are very helpful to our rule in the Mountain, we do not see the importance of these prisoners. The price you ask for their release is not within my power to grant at this time, and I see no reason to do so...." Nikû trailed off, wearing an expression that seemed to indicate she might be about to be violently sick.

Fíli shook his head, trying to understand. "Wait- that's saying Thorin was held captive... it was all Saruman's doing? I thought you said the Lake Men.... Alfrid-"

"Was just a pawn." Thorin's hands tightened on the edges of a nearby table, and Fíli wouldn't have been surprised if the wood cracked under the pressure.

"But you said... you mentioned another. The Southron. The one who let you get away without sounding the alarm."

Bofur shrugged. "We dunno if he sounded it or not, lad. There were dogs after us those first few nights; I'm sure of it."

"What now?" Gimli asked the question plain on the others' faces, his axe hanging idly at his side. If Saruman wasn't here... and if Dain was in league with him - had been, all along... well, that changed a good many things. It changed their objective, certainly. Broadened the charges against Dain significantly from a nebulous usurpation.

"Hold on." Nikû had apparently succeeded in swallowing her gorge and was focusing on Thorin again. "Your imprisonment was months ago. What if these prisoners are different - prisoners he thinks will give him some sort of control over Dain or yourself? The other members of the Company, or their kin, or... your sister." That thought, occurring to her as she spoke, seemed to weaken her somehow. Her expression, a mixture of fear and anger, reminded him strongly of Dwalin when he realized that Thorin was planning to rush Azog alone on the Burning Cliffs.

"But Dain would see Mam as important - she's his claim to the throne. She legitimizes his rule. So it can't be Mam." Fíli was confident on that point, even if talking about it made him sick to his stomach. He preferred not to acknowledge that the traitor Dain was now his stepfather.

"Then... who?" Bofur's brows knit beneath the wooly brim of his hat. "Doesn't make much sense."

" 'Price you ask for their release.' " Nikû had offered Fíli the letter, and now he was poring over it, picking out phrases that might give them a better indication of what the "previous missive" had been about. "He was trying to ransom someone.... Someone not of importance to Dain. Who would that be? Would he have waylaid more dwarves returning to Erebor?" The blond shook his head. "Why would Saruman think Dain would ransom ordinary dwarves, though? Unless he saw some value in them Dain didn't."

"Read the rest, Fíli." Thorin sounded calmer now, as though he'd managed to collect himself. "There is more."

Fíli looked down at the parchment in his hands, almost afraid to see the rest of the message. He couldn't take it all in, but saw certain phrases as though they leapt off the page at him. _"Generous promise of assistance"_ burrowed into his mind while _"_ _your advice on the subject of quashing rebellious laborers has been useful"_ burned like hot irons.

_"We will welcome your presence if and when our hospitality pleases you. Erebor's greatest patron and partner ought to be recognized by her people."_

Fíli felt anger building in his chest, and had to pass the letter back to Nikû before he tore it up.

"We have come too late," Thorin said bitterly. "Whatever Saruman has planned, it's clearly already in motion. He knows his murder of Gandalf won't remain a secret for long, so he's had to act quickly."

He stepped to the nearby window, opening the shutter to admit a burst of cold, damp air. Fíli shivered slightly in the sudden chill, and the candles guttered on the walls.

"Galan," Thorin turned to the boy again, "you will tell us all you know. Everything. And if I decide you're holding back information... it will go ill for you."

Galan shivered, eyes very wide in his narrow face, and looked like he was considering just fainting to get away from these vengeful dwarves. After several attempts at swallowing, he told his story from the time he'd left Thorin's company to the present moment, including the White Wizard's questions and his own revelation as to their purpose. He admitted that he'd given the Wizard the information he wanted, but added that he hadn't wanted to do it, and had regretted it since.

Even with the additional information from Galan's interactions with the Wizard, it wasn't really clear what Saruman had in mind.

"What about the orcs?" asked Nikû suddenly, frowning. "Where did they go?"

"North, I think."

"North?" Nikû's eyes narrowed. "Why would they have cause to lead an army north? If Dain considers him an ally, the only significant foe to the north would be... Thranduil."

"He's proved a less than trustworthy ally before." Thorin's arms were crossed, his look grim. "Dain may have given him just the inroad he needed. Erebor would be of more use to a Wizard than Thranduil's realm, and a far more powerful stronghold than this one."

Fíli frowned. "You mean... he's headed for Erebor?"

"Wait." Bofur looked alarmed. "If Dain's occupied wit' rebellions _inside_ the Mountain, and 'e t'inks Saruman's helpin' keep outside threats away... there's a lot o' dwarves in Erebor what need warnin'."

Thorin nodded, but Fíli could guess what was going through his mind. There was no way they could get to Erebor before Saruman and his host, if Erebor was indeed their destination. But there was still a raven sitting on Thorin's shoulder, looking at them with dark inquisitive eyes.

"We could send a message ahead. Wouldn't matter if Dain got it or Mam, because the important part is that the _people_ are protected, right?" Fíli looked hopefully at his uncle, who stroked the raven's glossy back thoughtfully.

"No to Erebor," he said at length. "To Bard. He's proved our faithful ally before. I'm sure he'll find a way to warn Dís."

"But what about the other parts of the letter?" Nikû shook the document for emphasis. "It sounds like Dain's dealing with some civil unrest. What if he' s..." Her face paled slightly. "What if he's begun rooting out those still loyal to Your Majesty?"

"You have a talent for spotting the worst possible situation," muttered Thorin, though he looked uncomfortably convinced. "Glóin, find paper and a pen. Bofur, go tell the elves what we learned. Fíli, help me figure out words - Balin always did official correspondences for me, but he's not here, so we'll have to make do."

Fíli felt a conflicted rush of comfort. This was the uncle he remembered from his childhood, always giving orders, staying busy. This was the uncle that could do no wrong, who was too strong to fail at anything.

The work was done quickly, the message composed, inked, signed, and affixed to the raven's foot using the same band the previous message had been slipped beneath. "Find Bard." The command was simple, softly spoken, but somehow, the bird seemed to understand. It croaked agreeably and spread its wings, hopping to the window and out into the darkness.

"Mahal grant him success," Thorin murmured, then turned back to the others. "We have little time. Gather what supplies you can from the tower, and we'll head back to the camp."

"But what about me?" Galan said miserably, his large eyes darting plaintively between the dwarves.

"By rights we should free your traitorous head from your ungrateful shoulders," snapped Nikû, who seemed very much distracted and out of sorts. Thorin shook his head. Fíli thought he looked tired. Things had just gotten more complicated and more urgent. Was anything ever actually simple?

"Leave him be," commanded Thorin quietly. "For all the harm he's done, it would do us no good to punish him now." Fíli wondered if it was Billa's influence working in his uncle - it was unusual to see him so forgiving.

"Then... what'll we do wit' him?" Bofur loosened his grip on the boy slightly, and Galan seemed to relax a little. "Can't just leave him.... He might get up to more mischief."

"You're right," Thorin said, nodding. "Tie him up. We'll make sure he doesn't follow us."

"Please, no!" Galan's protest was immediate, and it was clear he could predict the end of that particular course of action. Starvation.  

"Uncle, no." Fíli's protest was halfhearted, and he could see agreement in the faces of several of the others. "We don't need to be cruel."

"There are some among our number that would do worse. If he escapes, very well. If he follows us, then Nikû will decide his punishment." Thorin's calm statement made Galan go all pale and shaky, while Nikû smiled grimly and a fingered the pommel of one of her short knives.

Fíli wasn't completely convinced, but he hadn't time for any more protests. Thorin ordered them all downstairs. They didn't have the time to stand around and argue. Erebor was in danger.

Supplies were gathered, though there wasn't much to be scrounged from the austere tower. Saruman doubtless had other food stores, but it made little sense to search further into the circle of buildings. They'd encountered resistance earlier, and only a fool would risk awakening whatever force remained in Isengard over supplies they didn't desperately need. They ended up taking a few blankets and a small crate of biscuits that had evidently been left behind for Galan. The return to the camp was fairly quiet. No further scouts or sentries were encountered, thanks to their elven guides, and the group proceeded through the gates without incident.

"We'll leave at first light," Thorin advised, voice deep and rough with exhaustion.

"Where will we go, Uncle?" Fíli asked. "Back to Rivendell?"

There was a brief pause, in which it seemed every dwarf held his breath, waiting for the answer. Thorin let out a tired sigh.

"No. It would take too long, and we've precious little time. We press on to Erebor with all speed."

"Should we seek help from our kin in Mirkwood?" Faervel's voice was soft, but carried well. Again, a pause before Thorin answered.

"That's not a question I'm prepared to answer tonight. Take what rest you can."

One of the elves took first watch, and Thorin bedded down beside his nephew, the two sleeping back to back, as most of the group had begun doing out of necessity. Despite the danger they'd uncovered - despite the ostensible failure of their mission - here, with the solid warmth of his uncle at his back, there was a slight assurance lurking beneath Fíli's restless mind and its ever-present concerns: things would turn out alright. Somehow.

Morning, as ever, came too early for anyone's liking. In the misty half-light of dawn, bleary-eyed dwarves packed their blankets and what remained of their provisions while the elves saddled and readied the horses. Breakfast was eaten in the saddle, cold meat and stale bread, though it wasn't yet too hard to chew. Glóin grumbled loudly about saddle-sores.

The horses were of sturdy, intelligent stock, and had far more stamina than Fíli thought any creature other than an elf ought to have. Still, they had been bred by elves, so perhaps some of the fair qualities of their masters had become their own. With long strides, the horses trotted away from Isengard, around the wall and off to the northeast. Mountains loomed over them, stern faces dark with old fir trees and unknown dangers. Fíli urged his steed closer to his uncle's.

"Thorin? Are we... going through the mountains?"

Thorin raised his chin slightly, as though anticipating objections. "No. We will take the Forest Road."

Fíli's reaction was visceral, revulsion and shock. "Uncle, you can't mean it. The Woodland Realm is even less safe than it was before. If it hadn't been for our elven guide," he shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, reminded of his reluctant gratitude to an elf, "we'd never have made it at all."

"There are more of us now than you had during your last trip," Thorin pointed out with a mirthless smile. "It's the fastest route, and we know Saruman won't deplete his forces by taking the Woodland Realm while Erebor yet stands."

The quiet was filled with the steady beat of the horses' hooves against the earth. Fíli hated disagreeing with his uncle so much.

"So you're planning to request help from Thranduil?"

Thorin's face grew cold and grim. "We need all the allies we can get."

It took Fíli a handful of seconds to master his shock, and when he spoke again, it was in reproachful tones. "After the way he treated us, I'm not sure you'll fare much better. We weren't given so much as a full night's rest before we were escorted out." The blond shook his head. "He didn't have much against me, but he wanted me gone. But you- you'd really ask him for help?"

Thorin's hand snapped out, callused fingers gripping the collar of Fíli's tunic so tightly he almost couldn't breathe. The light in his uncle's eyes was desperate, nearly mad, and Fíli had to concentrate on gripping his horse's sides with his legs to avoid being dragged out of his saddle.

"Storming the Mountain with thirteen while the dragon was alive may have worked, Fíli, but we don't have the burglar this time. Our enemy is powerful, and has at least two armies at his disposal - we have no choice." Thorin's tone clipped the last words off into short, angry statements, a preferable alternative to the grief gathering in his eyes like tears. Abruptly, Thorin released him. "I didn't ask you to come. If you can't stomach the necessary choices, then go back to your 'dam and tell her why you're not fighting to protect her homeland."

Rather than defensiveness or insult, a feeling like nausea settled in Fíli's stomach. Now he'd done it. He'd pushed Thorin one inch further than his patience could take. As his uncle released him, the blond adjusted his balance, and lowered his head in shame.

"I'm… I'm sorry." He ventured a glance at Thorin, and was surprised to see a look of distant self-doubt. As though he couldn't quite believe what he'd just done. It was familiar, that look. Fíli remembered it all too well. "I shouldn't have..." the blond tried, chest tightening at the memory, but he couldn't find the words to finish the apology."

The distance that separated him from his uncle seemed to increase, somehow, yawning massively between them, though their knees brushed in time with their horses' steady gaits. Thorin was an arm's length and a dozen leagues away, all at once.

The dwarf sighed, and once more he was tired, aged beyond his years by hardship. "Forgive me. I'm not the dwarf I once was."

Fíli leaned in toward his uncle slightly, hoping the creaking of saddles and thudding of hoofbeats would cover a conversation that should have been private from the beginning.

"Uncle, you've been through a lot. A lesser dwarf would've broken a long time ago from the strain of it all." The blond smiled, and it was only half forced. "You're doing just fine. Really." He hesitated a moment, sensing it had not been enough; not enough faith had been displayed. "Whatever happens... I _do_ trust you, Thorin."

The reconciliation seemed a minor salve for an incident that was sure to plant doubt in the hearts of those less sure of his uncle's intent - or capability. But there wasn't anything he could do about that now. They had the same choice his uncle had given him a scant minute before: stay the course, or part ways.

Fíli glanced over his shoulder at Bofur. The miner was riding close behind him, and the hatted dwarf looked determined, but also somewhat skeptical and a more than a little sad. He'd expressed doubts before, and Fíli wished he hadn't been close enough to hear or see the conflict.

A quick look at Thorin confirmed that the exiled king was leagues away again, staring over his horse's ears with an almost vacant expression.

Conversation was sparse after that. The swaying, lulling rhythm of the horses filled the silence as the hours stretched on wearily, the sun shining faintly at their backs. At length, it faded altogether behind the craggy peaks they'd rounded throughout the day. They were in Rohan once more, skirting the forest of Fangorn, according to the Elves' map.

It seemed an ominous place to camp, all tangled roots and twisted, thickly clustered stumps, but they had little choice. Everyone was tired, especially the horses, and Fíli knew it was likely the forest would prove more of a protective barrier than a source of danger.

Thorin, Fíli noticed, hung back from the others, having apparently not shaken his previous mood. Fíli knew he ought to say something, but after what had happened earlier... perhaps it was best to leave him to his thoughts.

With a sigh, Fíli turned his attention to his bedroll, rolling it out and shaking out some of the pine needles left over from the previous night. He remembered the feeling of security that had come with the solid warmth of Thorin's back against his own, and clung to it. Thorin hadn't failed them yet, and the blond didn't think him likely to start now.


	29. Billa; Second Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billa is finally recovering, but her tea is interrupted by someone she didn't expect to see again.

Billa took a sip of her tea, savoring the sweet, warm steam as it swirled around her face. For the first time in ages, she didn't hurt or feel like the world was trying to buck her off. It was wonderful. But there was still one thing that disturbed her delicious rest.

Thorin.

He wasn't anywhere, and as ever when they were separated, Billa was sure the dwarf was off getting himself into terrible trouble. At least he had her ring. With it, he could get out of any number of messes. Hopefully.

The door opened to admit Kíli, who seemed perpetually worried, in spite of his smiles. She didn't blame him.

"How're you feeling, Billa?"

If she'd been asked that question once, she'd been asked a thousand times. Still, Kíli meant well, and she wasn't about to take her own anxieties out on him. She shrugged, watching her tea to make sure she didn't upset it. Hot tea soaking one's lap was never pleasant.

"Feeling a little more myself. Any news on Thorin?"

"Nothing." Deeper concern sobered the young dwarf's otherwise cheerful face. Billa still couldn't believe the change in him. He was almost nothing like the joking, fun-loving prankster she'd met long ago at her door in Bag End. Then again, the others probably thought much the same of her.

She felt a faint stirring in his chest for a long-forgotten armchair next to a long-forgotten hearth, then chided herself for a nostalgic fool. Despite these latest misadventures, and the ones that had come before, she wouldn't trade this life for a comfortable, Shire-bound one. She'd come too far. Seen too much. One thing in particular, though, she wished she needn't have seen.

"Kíli." She sighed, her stomach fluttering slightly. "I told Lord Elrond what happened. It's only fair I tell you." 

Kíli sat down hesitantly, and from his worried expression, it wasn't hard to tell she was wearing her grief out on her sleeve. Slowly, hating to relive it and unable to hold it in, Billa told the story of Gandalf's last stand. The confrontation with Saruman, their flight, the fireball, his last words, his last attack.

The halfling might have stopped there, but at Kíli's prompting, she reluctantly told him what happened after that, the argument with Saruman, the searching of Gandalf's body, dropping the ring... the knife. Falling. With a shudder, she stopped, taking a long drink of her tea.

"After that, everything's fuzzy. It's... hard to remember."

Kíli was momentarily at a loss. He shook his head slowly, face set in a frown. "Gandalf... would be happy to know you made it out of that alive, I think," he said finally, looking very sad. They'd known Gandalf was dead for quite some time, or missing, presumed dead (according to Elrond). It was clear finally hearing the full account of what had happened made the whole thing feel much more real. More final.

Billa leaned back in her chair slightly, setting her cup on the nightstand beside her. The elves, she decided, really knew how to brew a good pot of tea. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that it was the first proper tea she'd had since... she could hardly remember. Anyway, that was her mind, veering off into distraction rather than facing the harsh realities of her life where it stood.

"I think you're right," she said softly, not without the faintest quaver to the words. "It was partly for him I kept going. Mostly for Thorin, though, and..." She glanced downward, patting her burgeoning belly gently. "Well, you know." She smiled suddenly, thinking of something.

"Tauriel... she was here, wasn't she? I remember her voice. How is she?" 

Some of the gloom left Kíli's face and he smiled again, despite the nervous tension in his arms and shoulders.

"Taur's doing fine. Worried about you, of course, and ready to not be pregnant anymore." Saying the word made Kíli blush, which Billa found endearing. She and Thorin hadn't spoken of her condition. She wondered if Thorin would be just as embarrassed about it. In a private corner of her mind, she hoped so.

Under different circumstances, she might have chuckled at the thought. "Shouldn't you be with  _ her _ , then?"

Kíli looked doubly uncomfortable. "She's being looked over. To make sure everything's alright. She told me to check on you."

Billa shrugged. "Well, I'm fine. Whatever Lord Elrond did, he did a good job. It's not me we should concerned about."

Kíli seemed uncertain, but a pointed look brought recognition and shame to his face.

"There's not much we can do about Uncle," he murmured, bowing his head. "I would have gone with him, but I needed to stay with Tauriel."

His tone was one of deep regret, and Billa felt her heart twist in sympathy. As much as he'd changed, this much hadn't. He hated being left behind, and this time couldn't be any easier to bear than his time in Laketown.

"It's hard," she acknowledged, wishing she could say something more productive, "not being able to do anything. Do you know if Elrond has... made any plans yet?" She had only been awake for a couple days, but she had a feeling there was a great deal of expectant tension hovering just outside her room, out of sight. 

There was a moment of silence, wherein Kíli shifted a little in his seat, and the chair squeaked under his weight. From his discomfort, she gathered that there was a plan, but he wasn't satisfied with it.

"He intends to send a messenger," the dwarf began, but was interrupted by a ruckus outside. Elves were calling to one another, horses neighing, and cries of "Mithrandir" were echoing from stone to water to window.

Billa sat up, eyes wide. It couldn't be. Had they found his body? But they sounded happy - joyful, even. She traded a look with Kíli, then glanced at the window. Her legs felt a little too weak, yet, to make it all the way there, but even as Kíli stood and moved toward the window, the clamor faded, muffled by walls and doors.

"You don't think-?" Billa's throat was constricted, almost cutting off the words. Kíli shook his dark head, leaning out the window to see what was going on below. By his troubled expression, she could only assume he'd seen nothing as he straightened again.

"They wouldn't have been so excited if-"

"If Miss Baggins is here, then let me see her at once." Pause. A soft voice murmuring in protest. "If this wasn't a matter of life and death, I don't think I would be here."

If the voice hadn't been enough, the door opened and in strode Gandalf, his hair a white nimbus about his head, his beard wild and yet somehow crisp. Billa was so distracted by the Wizard's bleached appearance that it took her a moment to notice anything else - like his clothes. He wore a long silver-grey cloak, but the narrow opening between the two front panels, hanging from the crest of his left shoulder, revealed nothing underneath by pale, bare skin. 

"Gandalf!" Another figure entered the room, which was beginning to feel quite crowded. Billa watched as Lord Elrond swept toward his old friend, face alight with too many emotions to name, and embraced the old man as she'd seen him do on several other occasions. These two had been friends longer than most folk had been alive, and seemed to exchange life debts like hobbits exchange party favors. To her surprise, Gandalf's expression didn't change. He was looking intensely at Billa, and brushed Elrond off impatiently.

"Not now," he said brusquely. "We haven't time."

Billa detected momentary disappointment on the face of the elf lord, but it passed quickly, leaving only traces of it to be glimpsed beneath layers of wonder and relief. After such a slap in the face, the hobbit knew she would've been wounded beyond words. If Elrond was, he was hiding it well. How she noticed such things at all in a time like this was anyone's guess. 

"Gandalf..." She shook her curly head, at a loss. "I- I saw..." 

"No time to explain!"  the Wizard said, his manner not so much grumpy as incredibly urgent. "I've cost us enough as it is. We must leave immediately." He waved a hand brusquely, as though to cut off any other protests. "Get what you'll need for the journey, quickly!"

"Journey? Gandalf, what are you talking about?" Billa sat up as well as she could, and shouldn't have been at all surprised when Kíli put a hand on her arm. 

The Wizard opened his mouth, probably to say that he didn't have time to explain, but Lord Elrond interrupted. There was a flurry of movement near the door as the elf lord turned toward his miraculously resurrected guest, holding a folded stack of white cloth. 

"Gandalf, my friend, you're not dressed for a journey. Tell us your need and your plan after you are dressed." Elrond's deep voice was smooth, though his brow was wrinkled with concern. 

This seemed to distract Gandalf for a moment, and he looked at the folded cloth with a distant frown on his face. "White..." he murmured, as though confused by the color.

"Saruman is no longer worthy of the robes he wears. You, my friend, are the new head of the White Council."

"I thought maybe his robes were always white, he just never washed 'em," muttered Kíli, and Billa had to stifle a laugh. It had been a highly inappropriate joke, but it had struck her funny bone, and it was hard not to let it show.

Gandalf either ignored the comment, or was too distracted to notice. The honor was not lost upon him, even if it was obvious from his physical transformation that he was meant to have it. He seemed to relax a little, accepting the garment with a nod. "I will return shortly, Billa. Meanwhile, make yourself ready to travel." Elrond's look became once again one of protest, though a sharp glance from Gandalf quickly cut off any verbal reproach the elf lord  may have intended.

When the Wizard had disappeared to dress himself, Billa looked at Elrond, then at Kíli. "He was dead. I saw him die." As though Gandalf's presence had been a cork in a bottle, and now that he was gone the contents were spilling out, Billa felt herself beginning to shake. Had she gone mad? Was that it? "I was right there, I  _ saw _ it."

"Calm yourself, Billa." Elrond put a calming hand on her shoulder, and the halfling forced herself to breathe deeply. The elf lord continued in a soothing tone. "I don't pretend to know the depth of a Wizard's power, but Gandalf has returned, and I have no doubt that he means the best for us all. Master Kíli, could you go to the tailor downstairs and collect the things I had made for Miss Baggins?"

Kíli returned quickly, dark velvet and wool swinging over his arm, a small bag hanging over his shoulder. "Looks like a coat." 

"It is," Elrond confirmed. "The one you wore when you were found  was tattered beyond any hope of repair. It was patched and mended many times, however, which led me to believe it was precious to you." The elf lord smiled, reaching for the garment and holding it up by its sleeves. 

Billa gasped. "How did you-? It's... it's my coat." More precisely, it was how her coat might have looked had it been new, fitted, and made by elves, rather than old, oversized, and made by the Lake Men. It was truly a sight to behold, and delighted  Billa to no end. "How many surprises do you think I can handle in one day?"

"As many as you need to." Elrond's tone was sober, but a faint smile lit his dark eyes from within as he gave Billa her new coat. "Master Kíli, please tell your companions what happened, as much as we know. This concerns all of Oakenshield's Company. Billa, I'll send a servant in to help you pack and dress. I don't think Gandalf will be persuaded to wait."

Billa tested her limbs, standing cautiously. She felt weak and tired, like she was recovering from a bad cold, but nothing hurt. She hoped that wouldn't change when she mounted a pony. "I think I'll be alright, as long as he doesn't expect me to cross the High Pass on foot." A nervous smile flickered across her face, and she pressed on. "But what about my baby? I won't put him in danger if I can help it."

As Kíli reluctantly left the room, Elrond produced a somewhat strained-looking smile. "I have to trust that Gandalf knows what he's doing. He has returned at the behest of the Valar. They will guide his decisions, and I pray, protect your child." 

Billa nodded, swallowing nervously. She could tell Elrond was releasing her against his better judgement. "I suppose so. All the same, I'll try not to overdo it if I can."

It seemed a very short time later when Billa was standing in the afternoon sunlight with Balin at one shoulder and a messy but determined-looking Dwalin at the other. Dori fussed over her and her new coat, and an unfamiliar red-bearded dwarf stood by Kíli, looking on with interest.

A group of elves made their way down the stairs toward them, and among them were Elrond and Gandalf, speaking in low tones and with serious expressions. Billa looked at Gandalf, alien in his white robe and neatly-trimmed beard, and wondered if she trusted this new Gandalf as much as she'd trusted the old one.

"I see. We have little choice, then." Elrond looked grave, but stepped back with a nod as Gandalf turned to the dwarves. 

"We have little time. Miss Baggins, if there were any other way, I would leave you here in the safety of Rivendell, but I fear without your influence, Thorin may do something even more stubborn and disastrous than usual."

Billa thought to herself that it wasn't Thorin's fault that he was repeatedly placed in situations where all he had to choose from were stupid and disastrous things. She had no chance to comment on it, though, because Gandalf was already moving on with the next pertinent piece of information.

"I'll need one of you good dwarves to ride to Ered Luin with all speed. They need to be warned." 

"Warned about which part?" grunted Dwalin. 

"Saruman has long been the patron of the dwarves. He has betrayed the Free Peoples, and has far more in mind than hoarding gold at the cost of dwarven lives." The implied reference was plain enough for Dwalin, whose expression turned stony. "Where's Kíli?" Gandalf's question was met with silence at first, and Balin glanced back toward the door. 

"Inside, with Tauriel. He won't leave her to ride to Ered Luin. Not when she's this close to her time." There were lines around his old eyes that Billa didn't remember seeing there before. 

"I'll go." Dori stepped forward, though reluctantly. "The Blue Mountains are my home. They'll listen to me."  

"Excellent. Another will need to ride to Erebor. Billa and I will take a roundabout route to get there, but the faster they're prepared against Saruman's trickery, the better." Gandalf's eyes swept over the group, and the unfamiliar red-haired dwarf stepped forward. 

"I'll go. I can ride long and hard." 

"Ride well, ride fast." With that settled, Gandalf extended a hand to Billa. "It's time to go." Billa could see there would be no arguing with him. This new Gandalf was twice as adamant as the old one. The horse, Billa noticed, was already saddled and waiting, a tall grey gelding with a dark muzzle and white stockings. 

_ Oh, no. Here we are again. _ It felt a little surreal, Billa decided. All of this. She didn't have time to contemplate it long. Distracted as she was, Billa was surprised to be unceremoniously (though fairly gently) scooped up by the Wizard and put astride the horse, and her stomach was only just able to settle before Gandalf slid into the saddle behind her.

Billa tensed a little, automatically squeezing the horse's shoulders between her legs. As soon as the muscles between hip and knee began to clench, they screamed in protest, and Billa shuddered, whimpering in spite of herself.

Gandalf flanked her with his strong arms, holding her in place. He knew she was in pain, of that Billa had no doubt, but this was bigger than her - bigger than him. Nothing would stop them.

"Run like the wind," he whispered to the horse, gathering the reins into his long, pale hands.

The gelding snorted and leapt forward. Billa clutched at Gandalf's arms, then hunched over the gelding's neck, closing her eyes and concentrating fiercely on Thorin. They were going to Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering about Gandalf not wearing any clothes... yes, well, Loki and I have a theory about the party of elves he ran into directly after waking in the woods completely naked and not entirely certain what year (or Age) it is. 
> 
> We might actually write that scene someday. :)


	30. Kíli; The Naming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, at last, Tauriel has her babies!  
> Tauriel: And about time, too!

Kíli had thought never to see her so again. The look on her face brought to mind the abominable clash of arms, the bellow of orcs, blades flying, lives cut short indiscriminately. It was too easy to imagine she'd been the one struck with the spear that had nearly taken Thorin's life. Or that she'd perished when grief nearly stole her from the waking world.

Now she leaned heavily against the wall, her face a pale mask of pain and sweat. A stool stood a couple feet to her left, but sitting was uncomfortable for her, and Tauriel couldn't stay still very long. Her long red hair hung damp and lank about her face and shoulders, dark against the deep cream of her tunic, heavy and slick with sweat, sticking to the gravid dome of her belly and the drooping weight of her milk-heavy breasts. Kíli might have been embarrassed to see her thus, if he hadn't been so worried.

Then Tauriel groaned. It was a low, broken sound. A sound of pain.

Elrond was busily preparing a concoction at a low table nearby, crushing bitter-smelling herbs and adding them to hot water, quietly issuing instructions to a female assistant. Kíli felt entirely out of place, unsure what to do, where to stand, what to say. Useless. He'd tried asking Tauriel a few minutes earlier, and her reply had been little more than a pained hiss. He didn't know anything about this process, and his ignorance was painfully clear. 

As Tauriel moaned once more, his fraying nerves began to wear dangerously thin. Hands shaking noticeably, he steadied himself against a chair, taking a deep breath. The sharp scent of the herbs stung his nostrils, and he felt some return of his constancy. Enough to speak, at least, though his throat was tight and his tone uneven. "Lord Elrond... is there anything-" 

"No, Prince Kíli." The elf lord cut him off, sparing him an admonishing glance. "If you intend to stay, you must remain calm. Panicking will not help your wife."

Kíli shivered. Somehow, Elrond made "not panicking" sound like it was supposed to be a choice. Tauriel was beginning to pace again, reminding him somewhat of a cross between a caged wildcat and an overburdened mule. It was a terrible comparison to make, but it seemed to let off a little of the pressure he didn't know what to do with. Giggling tensely into his sleeve, he retreated until he stood against the wall.

_ Click click click click click. _

It took Kíli a minute to locate the source of the sound. Ori was sitting cross-legged on the floor, out of Tauriel's way, knitting something small and green. He couldn't identify it at this distance. Hesitantly, he joined the dwarrowdam and sat beside her.

"How do you do it?" he asked, eyeing her sidelong. Ori glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

"Would you like to learn?" She lifted her needles slightly, and he could see the intricate engraving - doubtless his brother's handiwork. "Having something to keep your hands busy helps in a lot of tense situations." Kíli frowned for a moment, then realized she was offering to teach him to knit.

"What? No, I mean how do you stay so calm?"

"Same answer," she replied softly, and shrugged. She went back to her knitting, needles clicking. He could see now that the little green thing was a tiny hat. "Something to occupy my hands. My craft can be taken anywhere."

Kíli nodded, crossing his arms tensely. Tauriel, across the room, emitted another low moan, and the dwarf practically melted, unable to stand it. "Tauri?" he managed weakly, shaking, and Elrond swiveled in his chair. 

"Master Kíli." The address carried with it an obvious meaning, and Kíli cleared his throat, glancing at his wife. She'd paused in her pacing, her look one of distress. Kíli forced the corners of his mouth up slightly, trying for what he hoped was an encouraging look. "She'll be alright." Elrond handed his assistant the steaming bowl, nodding reassuringly. "I will send word when the time comes."

The meaning couldn't have been clearer. Though Kíli longed to protest, he stood silently.

"No." Tauriel's voice was hoarse, and she was looking at Elrond as she spoke, swaying in place. "Don't send him away. If he chooses to leave, fine, but don't send him."

Kíli felt a wash of overwhelming gratitude. Instead of leaving, as the tight-lipped Elrond obviously intended, he moved carefully toward his wife.

"Turn around, love," groaned Tauriel, looking faint. Kíli obeyed without question, turning his back to her. A moment later, her slim forearms pressed hard into his shoulders, and she leaned heavily against him, trusting his steadiness, his sturdiness. Something inside him unknotted, and Kíli relaxed slightly. Tauriel's breathing panted unevenly against his ear.

"I don't know if I can do this," she confessed, and it was distressing, how weak and frightened she sounded. Kíli put a hand over one of her arms, chafing the smooth skin comfortingly, even though her words terrified him.

"You're doing fine, Taur. Y'know, Fíli told me once that Mam nearly tore down the mountain when I was born, 'cause I've got such a big head. I figure you and Mam are cut from the same stone. If she could handle me, you can handle these two. Their egos ain't nearly so big."

Tauriel laughed breathlessly, then moaned in pain. "Move," she grunted, and Kíli obeyed, stepped forward. The elleth shuffled forward after him, hands tight on his shoulders, and immediately, her breathing eased a little.

This process continued for a considerable while, as Tauriel's breathing grew more ragged, and her instructions less coherent. Kíli couldn't help feeling honored that she wanted him to be here, and he'd have been forgetful indeed if he denied they'd spoken of what would happen when the time came, but he still felt like this was somehow... inappropriate.

Dwarven males - at least those of the strain with which he was familiar - were not allowed to be present for such events. It was considered practically sacred. Mystical. There were all manner of chants and rituals and words of blessing spoken over the mother and her child during the process, and it was held that having too many present would hinder their potency. Dwarven children were becoming ever scarcer, and no dwarrowdam was going to take the chance that such rituals were so much hokum.

Still, here, amongst the elves... he supposed the same things wouldn't apply. As uncomfortable as the thought made him, he'd stay here as long as she needed him to.

Kíli felt his wife shudder, her ragged breaths pausing a little - and then a quiet splash as she shifted and resumed breathing again.

"Good," murmured Elrond encouragingly. "Good. To the wall, my lady. Sit, if you can."

Helping the elleth to the birthing stool was almost frightening, in an immediate sort of way - like seeing the dragon flying toward Laketown, knowing what was going to happen before it actually occurred.

Elrond's assistant brought a shallow bowl of steaming water, a fresh mixture of the sharp-smelling herbs the healer had been using earlier. She sang softly in Elvish holding the bowl under the elleth's pale face. The scent of the warm vapor and the sound of the gentle song seemed to work some sort of magic on Tauriel, who closed her eyes and breathed a little deeper, the color returning to her cheeks. Though he didn't sing, the elf lord hummed quietly along with his assistant as he placed his hands flat against Tauriel's gravid stomach, eyes half closed.

"Almost there," murmured Elrond. "The first one is in position. Rest a moment. Gather your strength. Ori?" The healer's tone didn't change at all, nor did the volume of his quiet words, but the dwarrowdam stood. Kíli noticed that her hands shook a little as she put her knitting aside. It was comforting to know he wasn't the only one who was nervous.

"Bring the blankets, please, and stay in front of her. Tauriel when you open your eyes, your sister will be here. She won't leave you alone. Keep your eyes on her."

Tauriel trembled, and a look of pain crossed her face - not physical pain, though. Kíli felt his heart twist with concern. "Gathien," she breathed, and the word was almost lost in the assistant's quiet song.

Her husband took all this in, dark eyes wide as he fought to keep his anxiety in check. Ori did as instructed, and Kíli found some courage in the female's quiet strength, the steadfast expression she maintained. He couldn't look at Tauriel. Not really. Something like that same guilt he'd experienced upon first finding out she was with child pinched at him again, reminded him this was  _ his _ fault. Every ounce of it. But for him, she'd still be in the Woodland Realm, strong and vibrant as he remembered her, Thranduil's guard captain who walked among the stars.

Now, she'd been reduced to the pained, exhausted figure he was steadying, and every bit of it was his doing. He knew what she would've said to such thoughts. It had been her choice. But was a choice made out of duty one he dared comfort himself with?

As though sensing some of the trend of his thoughts, Tauriel's long hand tightened around his arm. She opened her eyes to see Ori, who took her other hand and smiled.

"You're doing wonderfully," the dwarrowdam assured her friend, smiling.

No one mentioned the name Tauriel had whispered. No one asked who it was. There were more important things at hand.

"Now," instructed Elrond, and the assistant crushed a new herb into the steaming water, still singing quietly. The scent was sharp and spicy - invigorating. Tauriel's breathing sped up, then stopped for a moment. A tense beat passed, then her fingers tightened like an iron vice about his arm, and Kíli nearly cried out in surprise.

The elleth, silent now, wore an expression of such determination that Kíli almost didn't understand it. Ori gasped in surprise, shifting.

"I see the head!"

"Good. Take a blanket and prepare to catch the little one." Elrond sounded as calm and steady as ever, but there was a look of relief in his eyes. Ori obeyed, grinning excitedly as she glanced up into Tauriel's face. The elleth, half blind to reality, shuddered, and whimpered softly.

It nearly broke him, that sound. Kíli stood beside his wife, not looking at her, stoically bearing the pain of her death-grip on his arm, wishing for all the world that he could take all her pain and restore her.

It was several more minutes before Ori called delightedly that she first child was a boy. The child was wrinkled and bloody, about the length of Ori's forearm, and squirmed powerfully, almost falling before the dwarrowdam could pass him up to Elrond.

Tauriel's eyes tracked the child, and she sagged against Kíli, seemed deflated. She murmured something faintly to him in Elvish, but it wasn't a phrase he knew.

"A little boy," he murmured, stunned by the enormity of it. "Our son." A moment later, as Elrond cut the cord that joined mother and son, a new thought struck him. They'd spoken of it before, of course, but Tauriel had always seemed strangely reluctant to discuss it.

"What will his name be?" he asked, and Ori made an interested sound, to indicate she was listening as well.

"That is not a concern for today," said Elrond gently, already cleaning the newborn.

"You can't have a child with no name," protested Ori, almost laughing at the thought.

"Elf children earn their names in the first three or four years of life. What right have we to decide who they will be for the rest of their lives?" Elrond's tone was gentle, but very solemn, and Kíli felt somehow chastised, as though the way his people had always done things was... uncouth.

He kept this thought to himself, however. Arguing with Lord Elrond in such a moment would be inappropriate at best. He hadn't gotten a very good look at  the child, and the angle at which the elf lord held him now afforded him a very poor view. Still, all the things he'd wondered about for so long - what exactly the offspring of an elf and dwarf might look like, chiefmost of these - fell aside in the wake of his gratitude. The child was alive, and seemed strong. That was what truly mattered.

Despite Tauriel's apparent exhaustion, the second child was born only a couple hours later, just before full dark fell over the Valley. Ori cried out in delight as she caught the second newborn, who began to squall almost immediately.

"It's a girl!"

Kíli's heart leapt. A daughter. They had a daughter. Mahal had blessed him.

_ If only Fili and Uncle were here. _

The next hour was a blur. Elrond's assistant changed her song, flowing Elvish words seeming to chuckle over stones, somehow. Tauriel seemed completely drained, leaning heavily against her husband and not saying much of anything at all.

For a minute, the world seemed still. The children had been taken briefly away, and Elrond was busily taking care of something.

"Help me," murmured the elleth, and Kíli hastily obeyed. He helped her to her feet. She turned toward the door, and when Kíli hesitated, Elrond gestured unexpectedly at them.

"Take her to bed, Master Kíli. She's earned it."

Kíli obeyed, though he worried about his children. Tauriel didn't seem to have the energy for any argument.

"What about the twins? Shouldn't they...? I mean..." Kíli stopped short, his own exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. It was taking real effort to string words together into coherent sentences.

Elrond spared him the struggle. "Do not fear for them, Prince. They will be brought to her when the time is right. For now, she must look to her own rest. As must you."

Kíli nodded mutely, managing to express gratitude before supporting his wife out the door.

The bed, he found, was freshly made, sheets laundered, pillows fluffed. He pulled back the covers, and Tauriel settled onto the mattress with a weary sigh, eyelids already drooping. Her belly was noticeably diminished, and it took her a moment to acclimate to her changed center of gravity as she shifted beneath the blankets. He hoped this was a relief more than a discomfort, since she'd found the last few weeks increasingly miserable, particularly at night.

As he knelt beside the bed, she rolled her head toward him slightly, though her eyes remained shut.

"You did it,  _ amralime _ ," he whispered, chuckling weakly, more out of relief than any other emotion. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "It's all over now."

" _ We _ did it," she corrected faintly and her lips twitched upward, a shadow of a smile flitting across her face in spite of the completely lack of energy behind the expression.

Kíli wasn't entirely sure about the "we" part, but he felt the tiniest prick of triumph. He settled himself beside her, and felt her sigh, her breath ruffling his hair as she rested her cheek against his temple.

* * *

Kíli meant to leap out of bed when he heard the door open, but the maneuver felt a lot more like falling, or maybe rolling. His head was still deep in sleep-fog and concentrating well enough to coordinate his limbs wasn't as easy as it might have been. Ori passed him one tiny infant - he wasn't sure which.

"The one in green is the female," Ori murmured, grinning. "This one," she bounced the baby in her other arm, who was wrapped in a soft purple blanket, "is the male."

Kíli cradled his daughter in both arms and his head cleared with remarkable speed, enchanted by her soft little face and bright, grey-green eyes. She didn't seem to be looking directly at anything, but the eyes were clear and, he thought privately, very intelligent. Carefully, he carried the baby back to the bed, where Tauriel reached for her with an expression of relief and longing.

Kíli passed the infant to her, then watched with growing pride and happiness as his wife drew their daughter close to her body. The baby's quiet whimpers calmed after a moment, and Tauriel crooned to her.

In a moment, Ori was by his shoulder and introducing his son to Tauriel in a sweet, lilting voice he'd never heard her use before.

"This is your mam, little one. You've got red hair, just like her."

Kíli was surprised to see that Ori was right - the thin fuzz on the baby's pale head was definitely red, even in the watery moonlight that streamed through the window. Moonlight? How long had he slept?

Perhaps more surprising was the barest hint of downy reddish fur along the sides of the little face, ending just beneath the delicate ears, which were moderately pointed. Not as much as Tauriel's, but enough to be noticeably different from dwarven ones.

"They're just so..." Kíli fished for words, gesturing weakly. "...tiny."

Beautiful. Perfect. Soft. Any number of other descriptors would have fit, but he was too overwhelmed to speak beyond that.

Tauriel glanced at him, her smile broadening slightly. The boy wiggled a little in her arms, his toes curling then relaxing.

Ori giggled behind a hand, obviously delighted. "That's the elven blood, I think. Dwarven babes are a sight... bigger. And there's two of 'em." 

He didn't notice for a few happy moments that Tauriel was fumbling with the front of her tunic - by the time he did, it was too late. Kíli turned away, blushing, but noticed with surprise that Ori seemed relatively unbothered.

"They need to eat,  _ melleth nin _ ," the elf murmured, and he could hear a smile in her tone. "And so do I. Can you get me something? Not much."

Kíli obliged, grateful for the quick trip to the kitchens. There was much to think about, much to process. Being a parent - a  _ father _ . That alone was a weight difficult to shoulder, the sudden responsibility. The burden. Two little ones who might come to see him as he saw Thorin. A figure of respect, of authority. It was practically laughable, that. He simply couldn't imagine ever being that, well... serious. It was all happening so fast. Some days he still felt like a dwarrow, looking to others for direction and purpose.

These little ones... a what if he failed them? What if he couldn't raise them properly? Would it give Tauriel even more reason to regret the choices she'd made? He was interrupted from his thoughts by the elven cook, who'd quickly assembled a parcel while Kíli stood staring at empty space and contemplating the weight of the future.

"You'll find things suitable for your wife's condition, as per Lord Elrond's orders. She shouldn't have more than she's comfortable eating, Prince Kíli, so don't insist on it if she doesn't eat much."

The dwarf nodded mutely, turning away with the parcel tucked under his arm. Whatever it was, it was warm. Fresh rolls, he imagined, amongst other things.

Tauriel seemed more herself when he returned, her face aglow, her green eyes shining as they tracked her babies' movements.

"The girl has your nose," she announced shortly, chuckling faintly. "And your hair. Coarser than her brother's." 

Kíli noted that her voice was still a little hoarse, but she was just so...  _ happy _ . It seemed like years had passed since he'd seen her so contented, unable to stop smiling as she looked down at her children. The little girl lay on her back in Tauriel's lap, wiggling and waving her tiny fists in the air. The boy lay on his stomach beside his mother, a thumb in his mouth and apparently asleep.

Ori seemed to have absented herself from the room, which Kíli appreciated. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and passed Tauriel her warm parcel of food, which she accepted with a grateful smile. Their son squirmed beside him, beginning to gurgle as he woke up from his short nap.

"Kíli?" Tauriel was gazing contemplatively, fondly, down at the little girl in her lap as she tore a small piece off a warm roll, revealing a thin layer of cheese baked into the middle. "How do dwarves name their children?"

Kíli watched her fondly, her movements ever gentle as she ate. "We have a few different things to consider, I suppose." He shrugged. "Dwarves don't exactly bestow names on a whim, but I don't think we're quite as cautious as your folk. Mostly, it's all a bit of wishful thinking, naming a babe for what everyone hopes he'll become."

Tauriel chuckled, chewing slowly and seeming to consider. "And what did your mam wish  _ you _ to become?"

Kíli huffed quietly, almost wishing she hadn't asked. Almost.

"She named Fíli after our uncle Frerin. He died a long time ago. Then when I came along... well, it was right after our father died, and she wasn't very cheerful at the time. More or less, she named me 'Sorrow,' and changed it to match Fíli's name when I was older."

The silence settled a little between them. The cost of war, the grief of those left behind. Even a moment like this was not untouched by it.

"It seems an undeserved punishment," the elleth said at last. "To be a constant reminder of the loss of your father."

Kíli frowned thoughtfully, studying the swirling, intricate patterns of the quilt. It was a very fine one, each stitch carefully considered and remarkably even. A reminder of the perfection of elves - even in the tiniest of details.

"I don't think she meant the name as a mark of shame." He twisted, reaching to accept a piece of bread she'd torn off for him. "Still, I'm glad I grew out of it. A name like that doesn't suit me, eh?" He winked at her.

Tauriel returned the smile, but it was tinged with sadness. "No, it doesn't."

Kíli disliked the sadness in her face. This was supposed to be a happy time. She was safe and their children were healthy.

"What about you? I mean, what about elves? You mentioned a name before. Ga... then? Gathen?"

Tauriel's smile grew strained, and she looked away. Kíli might have cursed aloud for his own foolishness, bringing up something that made his One even more unhappy.

"Gathien. My sister. She died long ago, in an orc raid."

He might've said he was sorry, or that he regretted bringing it up, but Kíli knew that wasn't what she needed. His silent companionship - his willingness to listen - that was enough for now.

Tauriel sighed, finally, relaxing into a pensive lethargy. "Perhaps she would have abandoned me, too, if she'd lived. But some small part of me insists, now and then," the elleth looked away with a self-conscious half-smile, "that she would have stayed with me. That she wouldn't have let them leave me. Gathien and I... we- we were..." She trailed off, and Kíli could see her long lashes fluttering in profile as she blinked against the oncoming wave.

She swallowed a couple times, then smiled through the tears that didn't quite leave her eyes. "She was my best friend."

Kíli put an arm around her comfortingly, and the elf's long red hair cascaded around his shoulders as she turned to press her forehead against his temple.

"What does it mean? Her name?"

Tauriel let out a soft, choked laugh. "I am forest-daughter. She was daughter of the cave. We were named for where we were born. Our clan was nomadic." Her voice still shook somewhat, but talking seemed to help. There was more of a smile in her tone now, at least.

"Nomadic?" That surprised Kíli more than it probably should have, the more he considered it. None of the other elves of the Woodland Realm had possessed hair of so fiery a hue as hers. She didn't quite... fit. Much as he hadn't quite fit in with what his own people expected. "You never told me any of this before," he said softly near her ear. "I wish... you had."

Tauriel may have replied, but if she did, it was drowned out by a sudden squeaky wail from the male infant, still lying on his stomach on the bed beside Kíli's leg. The elleth jumped, startled by the sound, then reached across him before he could properly react, gathering the baby into her arm and cradling him against her chest, while the female rested in her lap, blinking uncertainly up at the ceiling, startled by her brother's cry.

Kíli was startled by her speed, and again by how gentle she was in spite of the weary droop to her shoulders, and lines of grief on her face. Wanting to help, he picked up the female, holding the tiny infant close to his body. She was soft and warm, and smelled of something sweet he couldn't place.

"I want them to have names to be proud of. Names that they won't be ashamed of later."

Tauriel glanced up at him, slowly rocking the boy as his complaints lessened and died away altogether. "Have you thought of some names, love?"

Kíli patted the little girl's back gently, tilting his head to one side. "I'm not much good for coming up with names. But..." He paused a moment. "But maybe you've already found one. Gathien." 

Tauriel's breath hitched slightly, and her eyes went moist again, but she looked at the little girl he held and smiled. Smiled like her heart was breaking in bittersweet harmony to an unheard song.

"It's a very elven name," she murmured, almost a protest, but not quite.

Kíli shrugged lightly, and the baby gurgled placidly. "So what? We can restore the balance by giving the boy a dwarven name, I suppose. If it suits him."

"Would- would your uncle approve?"

Kíli was reminded of Tauriel's persistent desire to serve her new king - something that seemed to extend even to the naming choices of her own children. He couldn't decide whether that bothered him or not.

"Thorin isn't their father, Tauri. He can throw a fit all he wants, but I suspect he won't."

The elleth gave him a wondering look, as if this hadn't occurred to her, and something in her seemed to relax. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, even the tension around her eyes changed subtly, as though a weight had fallen away and was no longer pressing down on her.

"Gathien." She looked at the little girl, then down at their son, calm now in her arms. "I remember a name from an old story my mother told us once. A dwarf named Birgir rescued one of my ancestors by discovering and opening a troll cave, freeing Haeven and his sister Tatharnith from their bonds and fighting with them to slay the troll." Tauriel hesitated there, and glanced at him self-consciously.

Kíli smiled, feeling strangely proud of his wife for taking that chance. Thoughts of Thorin's possible reaction were lost in the affection he felt for the elleth - even if she spoke Dwarven names with an accent.

"You'll have no complaint from me."

"You think it would do?"

Kíli chuckled at her fondly. "Of  _ course _ it will do. Couldn't have picked a handsomer name if I'd spent a week on it."

She tilted her head uncertainly, bouncing the baby. "Really? You're not just saying that to... spare my feelings? He is your son, after all, and I know of dwarven names only what you've told me." She sighed, looking away. "I don't even know what it means."

Kíli felt a little thrill, and grinned. All of that boring, dusty studying with Fili was finally,  _ finally _ paying off.

"Actually, it means 'rescuer' or 'savior.' I think that's the kind of thing I'd like my son to be."

Tauriel gave him a surprised look, and her expression relaxed into a smile. "Maybe it's silly, but... thank you."

Kíli nodded. "Silly or not, I think the names fit."  _ And depending on which set of rules we decide to play by, we could probably change them later. _ He imagined being known as "savior" might be a bit more weighty than most dwarves desired. The thought twitched at the corners of his mouth, but Tauriel didn't seem to notice. Thankfully.

A gentle breeze through the open window tousled the wispy hair of the child he held, and he was again struck by the simple goodness of the smell. It was innocence and light and sweetness, things that didn't last long. Things the world always stole in time. He didn't like that thought. It was too grim for such a day.

"What's wrong, love?" Tauriel's voice was soft, tinged with concern. He hadn't wanted anything to shadow this moment, but he could always rely on her to read even what he wished to hide. Already her face was robbed of some of its glow, replaced with the pallid cast of doubt.

"Nothing important." Kíli tried to shrug it off, but Tauriel didn't look convinced. With a sigh, he looked down at the little girl in his arms. "I was thinking that I wanted this to last as long as possible. This is a good day, and we have so many reasons to be happy, even in spite of everything that's gone wrong recently."

The elleth relaxed a little, and her expression softened once more. "I never imagined myself as a mother, but I'm glad we came to this point. It's... it's good."

Her previous mindset in acute remembrance, Kíli thought this was progress. He wasn't about to say anything, but the reassurance was nice.

"I never imagined myself as a father," he said, lifting his shoulders slightly. "I'd have laughed at the thought a few years ago. Fee and I - we were up for adventure, fun. I saw a family as little more than a burden." He scoffed at himself. "I never understood  _ why _ folk wanted those things. Not until now."

Tauriel seemed to hesitate as she glanced at him, but whatever had drawn the tension back into her shoulders left again just as quickly.

"You'll be a good father," she murmured. Kíli smiled. She was tired, and it showed, though perhaps not as much as he thought it should. He would care for her and their children, and the outside world would care for itself. 

At least for now


	31. Dís; Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís is still under house arrest, but she receives visitors occasionally - and not always the ones she expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy NaNoWriMo everybody! :D

It was a curious feeling, imprisonment. Like her entire body was slowly turning to water, melting from disuse. More than once, she had tried to convince her guard to let her go to the forge, to the kitchen,  _ anywhere _ that wasn't this blasted room. Set of rooms. Whatever.

Dís wasn't even entirely sure how long it had been anymore. The days were the same, cycling and blurring and blending until years might have passed. The only thing that broke the monotony of her existence was the occasional visit from Dain, whose presence was increasingly discomfiting. When he came, it was with questions and suspicion. It was only a matter of time before he decided she'd done something, whether or not it was true.

When the door opened without a knock or announcement, Dís nearly tripped over her own skirts as she turned, mid-stride, taut as a harp string. The dwarf in the doorway was Kuran. Dís had never been so grateful to hear a Grey Mountains accent.

"My lady," he whispered, shutting the door quietly. The look in his face was strained, as though he'd been ill recently. "I bring news, and you won't like it."

Dís drew herself up slightly, reclaiming some of her dignity as she steeled herself for what he had to say. The way things were going, she didn't suppose he'd trouble her for anything less than a full-on calamity. In any case, she was glad he'd returned.

"I'll hear it. If it's an order for my head, I'll welcome it gladly ere I spend what time remains to me in here."

Kuran hesitated a moment, then made a curious gesture with his left hand, reminiscent of the old hexes to ward off evil. Superstitious nonsense, Dís thought, but not something worth commenting on.

"Just today, Dain put three dwarves to death for treason. One was caught trying to leave the Mountain in the middle of the night. The other two are thought to be his accomplices." There was a pause while Dís grappled with anger and helplessness. "And the Healer, Óin, and the cook, Bombur, have been imprisoned in the dungeon for feeding information to your brother in exile."

Dís shuddered, fighting to maintain control. "So it's come to this now," she whispered into the horror-charged silence. "And where will it stop? When will it end?"

Kuran turned away, arms crossed at his back. "Who knows? It might already be too late."

"I could send a message to the King, claim responsibility." Dís searched fruitlessly for options, openings, possibilities. At the moment, the prospects were miserably bleak. "I could say I  _ forced _ the members of Thorin's Company to aid me, on my authority as Queen."

"And provoke him to put you to death, as well?" Kuran looked over his shoulder at her, and she could see in his face he thought little better of their chances than she did. "An excellent way to incite rebellion and civil war, that."

Dís felt the urge to bash her head against a wall. "Well, what would you have me do?"

"I wouldn't have you  _ do _ anything, Your Majesty. But I thought that if you knew I'd withheld this news from you, you'd behead me yourself."

"I may yet reserve that as an option," she said unhappily, not entirely in jest. "But since you're the only ally of mine who  _ hasn't _ been imprisoned, you're still useful. I have only to decide to what point and purpose."

With a sigh, she sank into the nearest chair, wincing as though in physical pain.  _ Oh, husband. What have you done? _

"This is only the beginning," said Kuran darkly, and sighed, his shoulders drooping a little. "I don't know where it's going, or when it will end, but I know it'll get worse before it gets better."

Dís watched him, resisting the urge to grind her teeth, drained by the news as surely as if she'd witnessed the executions herself. "Don't give up, Kuran. All is not lost. It can't be. We'll think of something."

Kuran left shortly after that, and Dís heard coin change hands before her door closed. She hoped the bribe hadn't been too heavy. Someone else might notice.

It might have been a day later, or two - it was hard to tell - when her door opened again. This time, it was with a knock and murmured "begging your pardon, Majesty."

Dís frowned slightly, seeing echoes of Dain in this young, burly dwarf with a dark chestnut beard and a helm tucked under his arm. His braids were wild, and his clothes travel-stained, his expression lined with worry.

"You might not recognize me, Cousin. I was much smaller when we met last. I'm Thorin, son of Dain, son of Nain."

Dís curtsied, but felt a nervous tension building in her chest. He seemed honest enough, but first impressions hadn't gone overwell recently.

It would be best to err on the side of caution, all things considered.

"I trust you're aware of the goings on in the Mountain. I am honored you were good enough to stop by, Thorin Stonehelm, but I must admit I am not entirely certain of your reasons." Dís studied him warily. As her son-in-law, even under the current circumstances of her imprisonment, she supposed it wasn't as odd a visit as it had initially seemed. It would have been, at best, a slight, coming here without offering some form of greeting to she who was lately joined to his father.

"Does the king know you've come to see me?"

"No. Adad doesn't know." The young dwarf, only a couple decades older than her own boys, shifted, spreading his feet as if preparing for a lecture. "And I'd prefer it stayed that way. I don't know what's happened to him, but something here... isn't right."

Dís found his earnestness somewhat disarming, but she couldn't take him into her confidence yet. As much as she wanted to believe he was genuine, she would be a fool to trust so easily - especially under such circumstances.

"What do you mean?" she asked, absently adjusting one of the lower cuffs of her dress, which had somehow gotten its lacings undone. "What have you noticed?"

It wasn't intended to be evasive, but it would put  _ him _ in the position of potentially slandering the King, not her.

Thorin (it was strange to think of him by that name) fingered the helm tucked under his arm. She noticed that it wasn't in fact wrought of stone, but seemed to have a heavy dose of raw iron worked into it, which had given the metal a dark, heavy appearance.

"He is... not himself." When the young dwarf looked up at her again, it was with an anxious expression that reminded her painfully of Kili. "My father would never put dwarves to death for no reason."

"Come. Sit." She indicated the carven table further into the entryway, beside a small alcove where a candle flickered in its iron sconce.

The young dwarf seated himself, setting his helm off to the side. Dís took the position opposite him, where she had a view of the door. She'd been having tea but a few moments before Thorin's arrival, and fetched another cup from a shelf in the alcove, pouring silently from the kettle she'd lately retrieved from the hearth. Steam swirled upward in an ominous cloud, then dispersed into nothingness.

"Was it for no reason, then?" she said presently, offering him the cup. "I was told... these dwarves had committed treason." 

Thorin seemed troubled by this, and swirled his tea about in its cup. "So I was told as well. But when I asked what the treasonous act was, the answer didn't seem satisfactory." His voice, now less anxious, had relaxed into a formal, somewhat clipped tone, very reminiscent of his father, when Dain was younger and his throat hadn't yet gone rough as gravel from shouting on the battlefield. "I was told they had been taking news to a dwarf in exile. When I inquired what proof there was of this treason (which doesn't seem like treason to me, unless this exiled dwarf is making overt threats to the king) I was told no proof was needed. 'Treason betrays itself, as well as the king.' That's what the guard captain said. I don't like it at all. It feels wrong."

Dís sipped her tea, her calm demeanor now rippled by guilt. "I will not deny it does not sit well in my heart. I would have defended my people against such misuse... if I could have done."

"The reasons for your... confinement," Thorin's tone warped unpleasantly about the word, as though he thoroughly disapproved of it, "were almost as unsatisfactory as those provided for the execution of good dwarves under the Mountain. Tell me, Lady, what is happening here? Why is my father so... unlike himself?"

Dís shook her head slowly. "I do not know, Stonehelm. The change... came slowly. I did not foresee it. Until it was too late." Her throat tightened. A failure like this wasn't an easy thing to talk about - good dwarves, loyal to her brother, dead. And through her allegiance with Dain, they had likely died believing her fully in support of the order.

That grieved her, but those dwarves were beyond help now. There were many others in danger, and it was to these she had to turn her efforts. "I trusted him to be nobler than this, your father. But power, I fear, is a force capable of corrupting even the noblest."

The young dwarf looked troubled, but sipped his tea without making a comment. At length, he shook his head and set down his cup with a sigh. "I can't believe that Adad would be so affected by greed and power. Not after all those years of ruling the Iron Hills. It was no mighty kingdom, true, but we were prosperous and well-represented in trade with men and dwarves alike. It doesn't make sense."

Dís, despite the unsettled twisting in her gut, felt a twinge of pride in your young cousin. His loyalty was clear, even in the face of his doubt.

"I don't suppose it would be an easy thing to draw forth," she said softly. "The source of his change. All you and I can do now is decide what - if anything - can be done about it." She'd decided to trust him. If it led to her ruin, so be it.

"Nothing can be done until we have more information." The young dwarf took another sip of tea, then set the cup down again as he stood to start pacing slowly from one side of the table to the other. "Who is this dwarf the king thinks the others were taking information to? Does he have a rival for the throne, or is someone threatening Erebor from the outside?"

Dís was silent a moment. It was true the name of her brother was not to be spoken by any, as surely as if to do so would conjure the banished, lend him some kind of power.

"Surely you can guess, Stonehelm. Who  _ else _ could challenge your father's claim with any credibility?"

He looked at her pensively for a long moment. "One of your sons?" he guessed, seeming less than pleased with the idea. "But why would they have been exiled?"

Dís realized then that her companion really didn't know. She lowered her own cup with a slight frown. "My sons were exiled with my brother, and for the same reason." It felt dangerous, somehow, to speak so, even without mentioning names. Thorin Stonehelm, however, turned a startled look on her.

"My namesake is banished? I had heard he was dead."

Dís' frown lifted in surprise. "You were told he-? But I suppose the truth wasn't the sort of thing to be spread freely, however they might've twisted it. Death seems much more final." She sighed, reaching for her tea again. "It's time, I think, that you knew."

The tale was simple enough, really, requiring less than a handful of minutes in total from beginning to end, and only one refilling of cups.

The younger Thorin shook his head, wonder and anger mingling in his eyes. "That my father could do such a thing... to banish his own cousin - the rightful heir - for little more than a difference of opinion. I wish I'd known sooner."

Dís smiled sadly. "Is that all it was, then? A difference of opinion? A... preference?"

"What else could it have been?" The dwarf, a warrior coming into his prime and clearly not one to sit idle, abandoned his tea and began to pace in earnest. "From your description, it's clear the halfling was not a liar and a thief, too small to be a physical threat and lacking any political power or ambition. Her presence wouldn't have made any difference! Oakenshield already had an heir in your sons - and even if he were insulted by the presence of an outsider in a position of power, and angry over it, Adad would have known that." There he slowed, and his fists uncurled, hanging loose at his sides.

"There's something wrong here. Something very wrong. This isn't like him at all. Something must have influenced him - and it's getting worse. I need to speak with him."

"I think you'd best exercise caution, Stonehelm." Dís' tone betrayed concern. If he went before Dain hot with rage and bent on confrontation, he might well bring harm upon himself. Or on others less capable of defending themselves. "Those who have questioned his decisions these past few weeks have not fared well. He turned against my brother, his cousin, who he supported time out of mind. What makes you think he wouldn't also turn against his own son?" 

The young dwarf flinched, clearly appalled by the suggestion. Still, he seemed to acknowledge its validity, and the rage drained from him as he sat once more, gazing unhappily at his tea.

Dís sighed, both relieved that potential disaster had been averted and sympathetic to her cousin's plight. "Perhaps you can gather information I cannot, but confronting your father outright would only tempt him to greater madness, I fear."

"So what should I do?" he asked, frustration clear in his tone.

Dís ran a hand over a braided eyebrow, hesitating. "Do what you can to investigate the source of your father's malady, but do not confront him openly. I fear subterfuge is the only course. Much as I despise it." 

Stonehelm nodded, and drank his tea. When he had finished, the young dwarf stood and bowed respectfully to her.

"Mahal be with you. May the stone be firm under your feet until we meet again."

Dís watched him go and sighed, feeling even more alone than she had before he'd come.

The hours passed by slowly as Dís waited. Waited for nothing. Waited for everything. The world outside was beyond her influence now, and as she alternately paced and sat staring into so many flat, stony, silent surfaces, despairing ever to see the true restoration of Erebor, she considered what she had heard and seen from Dain's son and wondered what effect, if any, he might have on the situation where it stood. She could only hope, if not a good one, not an ill one.

Shortly after her evening meal was unceremoniously deposited on the table by the door, the servant under the careful scrutiny of the pair of guards who stood ever outside the solid wooden barrier, Dís heard a peculiar, sharp rapping. She sat bolt upright, her chair squeaking lightly. Had Stonehelm returned?

She'd barely picked at her food, taking what she had only because tea wouldn't permanently sustain her. Smoothing her hair and skirts quickly, she stood, heart fluttering with what news the newcomer might bring.

"Enter." 

The first thing she noticed was the hand that appeared on the outside of the door as it was brought slightly ajar, and the sleeve that accompanied it.

Long, clean nails; thin, twig-like fingers; pale, stretched skin; cloth an ancient, yellow-white brocade. Dís' heart gave a great leap. To think she'd forgotten those whose task it was to put right those wrongs too hopelessly deep for mortals.

"Princess Dís." The voice was low, impossibly rich and resonant, even outside the chamber. "I trust I am not disturbing you." She heard faint murmuring from the guards, lurking in the shuddering shadows behind the imposing white sleeve. Clearly they weren't too comfortable with the intrusion.

"Not at all. Please come in." Dís brushed imaginary dust from her skirts as she stood to greet her guest. For the first time in weeks, she felt a genuine smile cross her features as she offered the Man a slight bow. He was very tall, even for a Man, and had to duck his head to enter the chamber. The rest of his robe was as imposing as the sleeve, long and flowing and clearly a symbol of his status as a Wizard.

He placed one of his long, pale hands over the end of his neat white beard, which hung partway down his chest, and bowed, using his staff to close the door on the guards' murmured protests.

"Your Majesty," he said respectfully, and his voice was even more impressively resonant than before. "I am Saruman the White. We have heard dark tidings from the Lonely Mountain of late, and I see now the situation is more dire than we'd thought. I am here to extend the hand of friendship to you, my lady, and my aid in whatever way I can. The king, I see, is not himself."

Again, Dís felt the impulse to throw all caution to the wind, to embrace the Wizard exactly as he seemed - a rescuer who had come at last to put right her mistake. But a pesky voice nagged at the back of her mind, shadowing her relief, advising her to trust no one. Not even Saruman the White.

"I fear for the king," she said finally, folding her hands decorously before her. "I have heard little from him these past few weeks. Perhaps you might tell me of his condition as you see it."

Careful, calculated words. Her caution was, perhaps, unnecessary, but she reminded herself that even a Guardian of Middle-earth was not completely above all suspicion, ridiculous as the thought seemed. 

Saruman nodded gravely, clasping both hands about his staff as though in thought. "He seems to be under some dark influence. I'm afraid it will not be easily removed. It has had more time to take hold of his mind than I would have liked." He looked so somber, so serious, Dís felt something loosen in her chest as she recognized the look of a man who felt responsibility.

"What can be done?" she asked, still cautious, but less so.

The Wizard looked very grave. "The malady is unlike any I have yet encountered, and you can imagine I have seen many in my time. Its origins, in particular, remain a mystery."

Saruman ran a hand up the black metal spikes crowning his staff, fingertips brushing gently over the white orb encased within. It was a gesture that seemed at once absent and deliberate, but Dís gave the thought little heed. Indeed, the Wizard appeared so deeply concerned, dark eyes distantly fixed on things doubtless beyond her understanding, she wondered how entrenched her skepticism had become to cast doubt on him.

"I must know everything, Princess," he said softly. "When you first noticed. Who or what brought it to your attention. Tell me all you know."

Dís spoke slowly at first, but gradually shared the tale of her brother's banishment, her courtship marriage to Dain, and his growing paranoia with more and more freedom. It felt good to know someone with more authority and more wisdom was finally going to take the weight of responsibility off her shoulders. Not that she felt any less responsible for the safety of her people, but it was a great relief not to feel like she alone could stem the overwhelming tide.

"And after he sentenced me to imprisonment in my own chambers, I was all but cut off from the rest of the Mountain. I know no more that couldn't be learned in greater detail from someone else."

Saruman gave a troubled nod, shifting his weight momentarily. "Whatever the case, it would be unwise - not to mention unseemly - for anyone else in the Mountain to learn of the king's condition. I hope still for healing, and not to unseat him. If he  _ is _ challenged, however, I must know what allies you may still be able to call upon to support us."

Dís felt a slight stirring of unease at the Wizard's solemn words, but considered it only briefly before brushing it aside. "Two of the Company remain in the Mountain, and my aide is still free to roam in the Mountain as of yet."

"Your aide?" pressed Saruman gently.

"Kuran is his name," Dís provided, a nagging sense of caution urging her to omit the name of the dwarf's father. A look of something like satisfaction seemed to cross Saruman's face, though it was gone so quickly, she wondered whether she'd seen it at all.

"I will seek him out," the Wizard said, tone reassuring. "He may provide.... greater insight. More, perhaps, than he has told you."

Dís chuckled mirthlessly. "I'm sure of it. He is no fool."

Saruman nodded, turning away on surprisingly graceful feet, robe rustling behind him. "Thank you, Princess. You've been of some help to me."

Dís watched the man go, feeling more at ease now than she had in weeks. Things would be getting done. She wouldn't be alone. And Dain would get the help he needed.

Restless with relief and inspired by Saruman's visit, Dís took a seat at her desk and began to compose a letter to her brother. Mahal only knew when she would be able to post it, but she felt someone must know of the day's events. And there she was still, quill scratching away steadily when a servant came with her evening meal.

She studied the woman's face, vaguely hunting for a clue, but there was nothing. The same blank, "orders-by-rote" expression as always, and the wooden tray was deposited in its usual place, the loose tea beside it in its little cloth pouch.

"Does Your Majesty require anything more?"

Dís managed a smile, slightly disappointed. Perhaps the change would be slower in coming than she'd anticipated.

"Only this," she replied softly, and handed the servant a small slip of rolled paper. The message seemed mundane enough, but Kuran would understand. Kuran missed nothing.

As she had expected, Kuran didn't come. He did, however, send a message by an unexpected carrier. It was approaching noon the next day (thank Mahal her stonesense gave her an idea of the time of day outside) when her step-son came to see her.

He wasn't carrying his helm this time, but passed her a scrap of parchment without speaking, his aspect as grave as if someone had died. Dís took the message and unfolded it with some anxiety. It was in Kuran's spiky hand.

_ The Mountain is not safe. _

She glanced up at the younger Thorin. "You've read it?"

He shook his head. "Wasn't intended for me, and I at least will leave your business to you, milady."

She smiled bleakly, the concern-deepened lines in her face easing slightly for a moment. "Unless I miss my guess, this will soon be everyone's business."

Stonehelm's features paled noticeably. "So there's been some truth to the whisperings, then? The talk of armies on the move?"

Dís strode softly to the hearth, letting the parchment flutter into the flames. The tongues licked at the smooth, white surface, curling its edges as they turned from glowing orange to black, crawling ever closer to the inky words Kuran had lately penned. The dwarrowdam turned to Thorin once more. "I'm afraid things have not transpired as I'd hoped."

"What will we do, then?" Stonehelm was looking to her for guidance, for leadership. This was not his home, these were not his people. Not anymore. What little authority he could wield was severely limited by the will and favor of his father.

"We will need to rely on the Wizard until one of us is free to act, or Dain comes to his senses." Dís saw a flash of surprise cross Thorin's face, and frowned a little.

"You would trust the Wizard?" asked Stonehelm dubiously.

"Has he given you reason not to?" Dís folded her arms, studying his reaction carefully.

The younger dwarf hesitated, looking distinctly unsettled. "He's been with my father almost constantly. Ever since he arrived." He lowered his voice. "I... don't like it."

"What is he doing?" Dís pressed further, hints of her building frustration beginning to fray the edges of her composure. "What do they talk about for so many hours?" The dwarrowdam desperately wanted to have faith, to trust that the Wizard knew what he was doing, but something wasn't adding up. What more did Saruman have yet to draw out of her husband? What good had he done if nothing had changed?

"I... don't know." His tone was reluctant. Clearly, this was something he wanted to know as well, and not knowing bothered him. "I don't understand why he's here, or what he has to do with us. We're not his folk, and not his business."

To Dís, that sounded suspiciously in line with the very reasons Dain had used to banish her brother. Her attention shifted subtly from the Wizard's actions to Stonehelm's suspicion, and the reasons behind it. Could it be that the young dwarf was merely as distrustful of outsiders as his father?

"The Wizards stand outside the quarrels of dwarves and their neighbours," she reminded him gently. "Saruman is not a Man in the sense you view him, I think. He is a friend to all peoples."

That was the right thing to say, an inner voice counselled her. To mistrust a  _ Wizard _ just because she couldn't wait another day or two to see results seemed very childish indeed.

"Have you seen him  _ do _ anything?" she asked, finally. "Anything that would call his motives into question?"

Stonehelm looked down and scuffed his boots against her plush rug, looking like a chastised dwarrow. This did nothing to increase Dís' confidence in her own judgment.

"I haven't seen him do anything but talk in whispers and look serious," the dwarf admitted. His tone said all too clearly that he knew it sounded like he was childish and biased without reason. "But if he was truly working for Erebor's best interest, why wouldn't he include others in his counsel? Why is he so secretive?" 

Dís turned away with a shrug, sparing Stonehelm a doubtful expression. "Who can say? In truth," she fisted her hands unconsciously, struggling against the voice whispering that her suspicions were ridiculous. Unfounded. Absurd. "In truth, I've wondered myself concerning his... intentions."

"My Queen?" The quiet shuffle of Stonehelm's boots revealed he'd taken another step toward her.

She put her hand to her lowering forehead, fighting some strange, almost overpowering dizzy spell that had come upon her suddenly. Just as quickly came the headache that followed. It felt remotely like a crew of tiny, determined miners chipping away at the inside of her cranium. Dís put both hands to her temples, collapsing into the nearby chair and nearly missing it altogether.

"My Lady!" The exclamation was one of shocked concern, but it seemed somehow distant. Drowned out by the ringing cacophony inside her head.

"I'm fine," she insisted nonetheless, words hissed through clenched teeth. "It will pass in a moment." 

A warm hand touched her arm. The sensation was one she could focus on. Eyes closed tight, she fought to think through the throbbing pain and chaotic rushing, ringing noise in her ears. Stonehelm. Yes. He was worried. It was just a headache. But it had come on suddenly. Very suddenly. No, it was just a headache. She was fine. Everything hurt so much, she didn't want to continue the argument.

"Leave me," she ground out, but the hand didn't move from her arm. Why? He was worried, she reminded herself. But it was just a headache. No, it was too sudden, too painful. She'd never felt anything like this, even when she'd been grief-sick after Vili died. 

Maybe she would've welcomed it then. It made it difficult to think.

"I'll send for the healer." Stonehelm's heavy wool cloak swished as he turned, but Dís' fingers leapt out blindly to pull him back. They found a gauntleted wrist and held it tightly.

"I don't need a healer." She strove to steady herself, to claw her way back to composure. It wasn't working. "He can't help me." She released him and folded into the table once more, working to steady her breathing, focusing on it.

"Came on so suddenly..." The younger Thorin was talking to himself now; that was clear from the tone. "Out of nowhere. Not natural."

His words seemed to echo and re-echo in her mind. Not natural. Out of nowhere. Something seemed to snap inside her skull, and there was a fantastic, crippling flare of pain right on the heels of a thought - though what the thought had been, it was hard to say. Everything went dark after that.

When Dís opened her eyes again, there was a grimly worried-looking healer leaning over her, and she was flat on her back on what could only have been her bed. The healer was not Oin, and she couldn't see Stonehelm anymore, but she knew he'd been right. 


	32. Thorin; Espionage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Company have arrived at the Mountain, but aren't sure how to proceed. Thorin gets inside, and is not pleased with what he finds
> 
> WARNING: Major character death in this chapter. Summary included in end note from the author for those who wish to avoid graphic description of said death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SECOND WARNING: This chapter will probably make you cry. If you need to concentrate on things (taxes, work, watching small children) I advise delaying the process of reading this chapter until you have time in which it's safe to be distraught and distracted. 
> 
> There is a chapter summary available at the end of this chapter if you want to know what happens, but dare not risk reading immediately.
> 
> I would also like to personally apologize for the trauma you are about to endure. Writing this chapter made both Loki and I cry. I will have to write something fluffy to make up for this.

Thorin eyed the massive gates, still small in the distance and yet impressive all the same. He and his ragged Company had camped some way from the Mountain for several nights now, and it was abundantly clear that Erebor was locked down, locked up, and on guard. It was as though they expected a siege. Or worse.

It could have been their presence. I might have been something unrelated that they didn't know about yet. Either way, it made Thorin decidedly uneasy. He wished, for the thousandth time, that Billa were there. She could get into and out of anything, and even when she didn't, she always had good, solid advice. He could hear her now, telling him to stop brooding and eat something before he wasted away to nothing.

The thought sent a lance through his heart, and the dwarf lowered his head, swallowing a sigh. Billa was gone, and no amount of wishing would bring her back.

A sturdy figure sat down to his left, and for a moment, he thought it was Dwalin, taking his accustomed spot at his charge's side. No... it was Nikû. The two, he reflected, were very similar in some ways. Came of being bodyguards to royalty, he supposed.

Rather than speaking, Niku pulled a lump of grey-brown clay from a pouch at her belt, wet it, and began to mold it between her broad, calloused hands, seeming just as pensive as he was. 

As to what she might be shaping, he hadn't the faintest. A plan, maybe. They still needed one, and a fine one at that. Slipping into Erebor unnoticed would've been familiar territory for but one of his former companions, and his mind returned to her so many times, he was beginning to wonder if madness would end him, or an Iron Hills axe.

The elven scout returned, shaking her fair head gravely. "No sign of a besieging army. Why they have barricaded themselves in just now is beyond my ability to judge, unless dwarves act on rumors and whisperings."

"Perhaps they've heard the rumours," Thorin mused, his voice full of the same quietly burning rage he'd carried since he'd realised Saruman's betrayal.

The elf nodded. "If what Lord Bard said is true, the rumours might be more than that."

Thorin didn't want to consider the possibility but knew he must. Bard had warned them of increasing orc activity, and rumors of a large body of men to the east, moving toward the Mountain. They'd never been sighted by any reliable sources, the rumors were too persistent not to be regarded as at least actively spread, if not entirely true.

The elf seemed on the verge of saying something else, but hesitated, until Thorin gestured for her to speak. "We took care not to be seen, but I think the guards may be aware of our presence here."

Thorin's frown deepened. "Then why haven't they come for us? We'd be no match for them, and they have cause to prevent my roaming free. Or am I so unrecognisable?"

His hand absently traced the nearly imperceptible patch on his opposite sleeve. Kíli's clothes were Erebor-made, at least, though not his accustomed attire. The elves of Rivendell had managed some competent mending and alterations, but he missed the familiar weight of his coat, the warmth of the fur about his throat. Perhaps his identity wasn't as obvious as he'd assumed.

The she-elf looked away uncertainly. "I do not know, my lord. I will do my best to find out."

Nikû shifted at his side. Her hands were still kneading the clay, warming and softening it, but it was clear she had thoughts on the matter. 

Thorin indicated, with the hand that still felt the ghost of the skilled elven stitches, that she should speak.

"What if they believe us a small portion of a larger force?" she suggested, her tone reflecting thoughtfulness as she continued to work the clay between her calloused hands. "We have reason enough to threaten them. If someone had carried news of a large force heading in this direction, and a deposed king showed up on your doorstep, what would you think?" Nikû was perhaps a little more casual than she ought to have been

Thorin conceded the point. "What do you propose, then? If our presence has not gone unnoticed, no strategy based upon secrecy is safe."

"I don't imagine your sister would be happy if she knew you'd saved her at the cost of all our lives." Bofur, flat and cheerless. He'd been the voice of dissent more and more these days, though Thorin tolerated it more than he otherwise might have, considering the miner's fragile state.

"Perhaps secrecy is not altogether lost to us." The elf seemed pensive as she spoke, and Nikû looked at her curiously. After a moment of thought, the fair-haired scout hunkered down beside the dwarves and spoke quietly. "As I understand it, the Mountain has many secret passages, and only a very few can be accessed from the outside. And perhaps the guards know of our presence, but at this distance, they couldn't know the movements of individuals."

Thorin noted, with a feeling of gratitude, that the elf had positioned herself so Bofur couldn't see her face, and spoke low enough that only Thorin and Nikû could hear her. They were, after all, the leaders in this mission.

The dwarrowdam seemed to catch onto what the elf was driving at. "Ah. So we might be able to send one of our number in without Dain's knowledge."

"It wouldn't work. Surely he knows all the passages and entrances by now." Thorin shook his head, as much to clear it of the memory of Billa walking into one of those secret entrances as to negate the budding plan.

"But why would Dain guard such passages?" Nikû asked gently, averting her gaze. Thorin suspected she was pretending not to notice the memory plain on his face. He wished such things were easier to hide.

"Why would he not? He knows how we got in before."

Nikû nodded. "But if he doesn't know it's you... why would he bother? Who else knows about those entrances and passageways?"

Far-fetched as it seemed, her suggestion held some amount of promise. Thorin knew Erebor better than Dain, and once inside, there were many ways to move about undetected.

"What do you have in mind?"

Now in earnest, and more hopeful than they'd been in several weeks, Nikû and Thorin began to discuss possible plans, the silent elf listening intently yet offering no input unless asked.

They agreed at length that Thorin himself should be the one to sneak in (though Nikû disapproved, she also felt firmly that no one outside the royal family ought be too familiar with the secret passages into and out of the Mountain). Once inside, he would be able to either capture or confront Dain.

This would also put to rest Bofur's concerns, as Thorin would be putting only himself in immediate danger.

"Full dark would be best, I warrant," he mused. "I could join one of their patrols. They allow them through readily enough. But you'd have to secure some of their armour."

The elf nodded confidently. "Consider it done. There is a path through the rocks nearby," she swept her keen gaze across the starkly shadowed landscape framing the gate, "where such a thing would be easy. Patrols have been passing through on the hour. One or two at a time, sometimes a few more."

"Good." Thorin quickly pulled his hair back, securing it with a band of leather. He imagined his face was dirty enough, but still... being recognised was a legitimate concern, even beneath a helm. "But wait another hour. It will give them less of a chance to note anything is amiss."

There was a flurry of activity in the  camp over the next hour as the rest of the demoralized Company was informed of the plan and set to making preparations.

Of those present, Fíli was the most uncomfortable with Thorin's intention to enter the Mountain. The blond dwarf said nothing aloud to communicate his unease, but Thorin knew his nephew well enough that words were unnecessary. He felt a little twinge of regret for the anxiety he caused his sister-son, but this was the only way he could see of confronting Dain and rescuing Dís.

He considered offering a promise of favourable outcome, but ultimately checked himself. Fíli wasn't stupid. He would have seen the emptiness behind it. In the end, he gripped the blonde's shoulder as he made to pass, catching his nephew's eyes.

He was struck by a thought. Wistfulness and regret, maybe, but he had little to lose through being open.

"I remember... how you were the day of your first sparring match," he said softly.

Fíli twitched slightly, clearly surprised. "Uncle?"

"You were so determined to impress me." Thorin huffed a quiet laugh, genuine mirth flickering hints of life into pain-dulled eyes. "You looked back every half minute to make sure I was watching."

Fíli's face carried a look of mild concern and suspicion, though his cheeks flushed noticeably. "I... didn't want to disappoint you. I wanted you to be proud of me."

Thorin took hold of Fíli's other arm, pulling his nephew's forehead to touch his own. "I am not the dwarf I was then, sister-son. Not even the greatest warrior would have impressed me. Even so, your spirit was strong. You were knocked down three times, if I remember rightly. You refused to give up."

They were at arm's length again. Fíli looked away, features taut with long-buried memories. "Four. Four times. I wouldn't give up because you would've... because of what you said before the match. That sons of Durin would rather die than give in."

Thorin smiled once more, releasing his nephew altogether. "And now you know why I must do this. No matter how many times I've fallen, as long as I still have breath, I've still a chance to win this fight."

"And... if you're killed?"

"Then at least," Thorin leaned in slightly, lowering his volume considerably, "I will die knowing I did everything I could by our people. You wouldn't respect me for any less."

For a moment, it looked like the blond wanted to protest, but after a slight hesitation, he subsided again without saying anything. Thorin wished his nephew didn't look so troubled. This was necessary. He had to know that.

As he removed his hand and began to turn away, Fíli caught his sleeve, his young face tight with apprehension. "Promise... promise you won't go looking to die. I'm not ready to be king."

Thorin nodded. The thought had definitely crossed his mind, but the cessation of his own misery wasn't his first priority. "I won't throw my life away. You have my word."

Fíli pressed his lips together in the ghost of a smile, and mild comfort warmed his pallid features. Small as it was, it was enough for Thorin. If this was to be the last time he saw the young dwarf, it was a parting he could abide. He couldn't say the same for many of the others he'd had.

"Farewell, uncle."

"Mahal guard you, nephew."

* * *

The gate was silent, a squat iron face with boxy protrusions frowning down at Thorin as he approached. He'd fallen into line behind one of the larger returning patrols. Incredibly (and perhaps disconcertingly), one of their number's disappearance and subsequent reappearance about 6 inches taller went completely unnoticed. None of these dwarves spoke beyond low grunted orders and confirmations, and Thorin suspected they didn't know each other to any significant extent. That was lucky. Also lucky were the Iron Hills helms, bulky and low above the eyes, cheek guards broad and concealing.

"Password," the warden at the postern gate growled. The entrance was smaller, better concealed behind one of the newly repaired statues of Thror, but no less fortified or defended. In a full siege, Thorin knew the entrance could be quickly buried beneath a waiting avalanche of suspended rubble. Such a tactic had been tried at Smaug's coming, but dragons have no interest in small gates.

"Next," the warden barked, and Thorin realised with a sense of rising panic that the password was to be asked of each guard in turn. Whispered, not spoken aloud.

Thorin looked around, hoping for something, anything, that might give him a hint before it was his turn to speak the password. One of the two dwarves behind him rolled his eyes - a flash of white under the protective jut of his helm. Then he nudged his companion, who was almost three inches taller than he.

"The pup forgot the password," he grunted, sounding vaguely amused. The taller dwarf looked at Thorin. It was hard to tell behind the mask-like helm, but this dwarf seemed to have a kinder, more open face than his companion.

Thorin blanched a little, mildly surprised at being referred to as a "pup." He supposed his shorter beard and finer features (what could be seen of them, anyway) were to blame, and hoped he could use this to his advantage.

"Guess he can't be faulted too much. Big, fancy words an' all. Silly old poet's ramblings, I expect." The kinder dwarf was looking at him with sympathy.

"I know what it is," Thorin said softly, his embarrassment only half-feigned. "I just... it's been a long day, and-"

"Tell that to the King," the warden growled, shaking his head irritably as he waved Thorin forward for his turn at the gate. "Perhaps he should hear about guards who find his own words so... forgettable."

Thorin made a pretence of fright, stepping forward. "No, wait... I remember- It's... it goes..." The voice he affected was probably terrible, higher timbered, heavily accented. Billa would've laughed about it later, if she'd been here.

"Oh, cut him a little slack," admonished the kinder of the two guards.

The warden's scowl was black, and one hand rested on the haft of his short ax. "If he can't remember one bleedin' poem, maybe it's best he sleeps on the slopes t'night."

"But it's not just one," reminded the kindly dwarf, his tone respectful. "Last week, it was the one about the mine, this time, the one about the fountain. It's not as easy as it seems when you only walk patrol every third day."

Fountains? Mines? Thorin dimly recalled an enormous throne room and the echoing bass of his grandfather's lilting voice. Now that he was thinking about it, the words came clearer.

"I remember." It was a risk, but his choices just now were. limited. "Drink deep of silver fountains, king by right and stone."

The warden blinked a moment, then stepped aside with a dismissive grunt. "Close enough. See you don't forget it again."

Thorin managed to hide the extent of his relief, flashing instead what he perceived to be the nervous and awkward smile of a chastened youngling.

"Of course. S-sorry. Won't forget." These words were uttered hastily over his shoulder as the group advanced through the gate, and Thorin worked to master his racing pulse. That had been very, very close.

The dwarves beside him chuckled to themselves as the gate clanked shut behind them.

"That'll teach 'em, letting lads in the guard a'fore they've even got a proper beard," one said, not unkindly, and another laughed beside him.

"Tall for his age, though. I reckon he'll be alright, given a decade or two."

Thorin touched his beard self-consciously, and wondered what Billa would think. The idea pained him, and he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. With the death of his One and the marriage of his sister to a traitor, he had once again shorn his beard to a grieving scruff, though it was longer now than he'd intended to keep it, due to travel and distraction. Still, he respected his loved ones enough to show his grief how he could.

With unfeigned humiliation, Thorin moved swiftly away from the others in his patrol, shoulders hunched and head down.

It was now a matter of slipping unnoticed into one of the Mountain's many hidden passageways. The closest one would get him near enough the royal chambers to seek an appropriate course of action. Thror, for whatever reason, had installed tunnels all throughout the Erebor; most had only been discovered after its reclaiming, during the rebuilding process. Thorin had to shake his head in wonder. Silly idea, indeed, installing a passage between a storage cellar and the plaza off the royal apartments.

Like many of the doors in Erebor, this one would open only with the right key. Thorin didn't have it. Nori would've picked the lock (and probably  _ had _ , at some point before the sortie), but considering Dain's paranoia, Thorin calculated the king wouldn't have left any significant portal unguarded.

He was right, though the lone Iron Hills soldier propped sleepily against the door hardly qualified.

Thorin paused to consider his options. It would have been ideal to just walk up and relieve him, but he was sure his ability to fake an Iron Hills accent was almost as laughable as... well, he didn't want to compare it to any of his other skills just then. Besides, what was important was that he got in without being discovered. Options: deception (not his strong suit), force, or subterfuge.

After a moment of thought, he shook himself and stepped forward. Before the guard could straighten up and properly challenge him, Thorin lifted his ax and slammed the butt end against the side of his thick skull. The guard dropped in a senseless heap.

That had worked. Somehow. Of course, if the guard's watch was sure to end at some point, and his relief would discover something was off. Better the unconscious guard be missing than providing clear evidence of foul play.

Thorin quickly relieved him of his keys and dragged him inside the dark room, snatching a torch from a sconce outside and locking the door behind. At any rate, it would take a few minutes beyond the discovery to sort everything out, which would be enough of a lead if Thorin moved quickly.

Exchanging a few items of his livery with the unfortunate guard, since the pauldrons and greaves of the patrol were too heavily armoured to belong to a simple guardsman, Thorin turned to where he recalled the passage had been. Hopefully Dain hadn't sealed it off.

The torch lit upon the roughly hewn rock walls, chasing shadows down to the furthest depths of the nearly empty store room. At the very end, between two precise stacks of barrels, was the hidden passage.

It was already open.

A thrill of suspicion swept through him, pricking at his already tense and thrumming senses. Someone else had been here, and recently. Stowing the unconscious guard near a large, heavy crate he proceeded cautiously toward the tunnel with the torch in one hand and his ax in the other.

His boots seemed much too loud in the close confines of the secret passage, and even his breathing seemed very noisy. There was someone else in the passage, and he was positive they weren't supposed to be there. He held the torch higher - it made him an easy target, but it also made him seem like one who belonged. Too bold to be an intruder.

Footsteps. Harsh breathing. The scrape of metal on stiff leather. Thorin barely got his ax up in time to block the long knife. His attacker was shorter than he by a hand and a half, and had wild red hair, unconfined by braids.

Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and the dwarrowdam leapt back with a startled grunt. "Oakenshield?"

Thorin recognised at once from face and voice the 'dam who had pledged her service to him. Ginii. Seemed an age ago now. He was so overcome with relief that he momentarily forgot how to speak.

"Y- you got in, too?" he managed, finally. His ax remained in the air, either forgotten or...  _ Or. _ Gone were the days when those who had pledged to serve could be trusted wholly; Thorin had been a fool not to see that sooner. 

Ginii sheathed her blades without hesitation. She, like Nikû, carried knives, though hers were mismatched and rather battered.

"Aye. I was sent from Rivendell to alert Lady Dís and possibly warn Dain about Saruman's treachery, but he's been impossible to reach." She eyed the ax for a moment. "I've just seen the Lady's room. She is heavily guarded day and night, and I can't get in. If there's a secret way, I haven't found it."

"There is no secret way. Not into the Queen's Chamber." Thorin lowered the ax with a sigh, fingers still tight around the haft. While he was glad to have an ally, he couldn't imagine the two of them would be enough to contend with so many guards. "And Dain? Where is he? Why couldn't you speak with him?"

"She's not in a Queen's Chamber," said Ginii, and sounded almost insulted about it. "She's two doors down from the King, and apparently hasn't been seen in several weeks. Dain - I've asked to see him more than once, but the guards and advisors and such, they think no 'commoner' could have anything important to say. I wasn't desperate enough to say it was a message from Gandalf or Lord Elrond."

Thorin hesitated the space of a breath, made to reply, then checked himself, frowning deeply.

"Gandalf? What do you mean? He gave you a message before he...?" The dwarf shuddered slightly, pushing back the sudden onslaught of images he couldn't allow to obstruct his purpose. "Or had he left one in Rivendell?"

"No. He sent me here himself. Was very urgent about it, too. Said I must carry a message to the Mountain while he -" Ginii paused, and Thorin thought he saw a look of chagrin pass across her bearded face. "Oh. I feel a right fool. We thought he was dead, but then he came back, and he was in a hurry to take the halfling and leave the valley with all speed."

"Came back? How do you mean?" Thorin shook his head, wondering if the world had gone mad or only him. "As much blood as he'd lost... how?"

But Gandalf was a Wizard, Thorin reminded himself, and tended to bend rules in every game he played. Even death, it seemed.

"It doesn't matter," he said quickly, cutting off Ginii's reply. "They will be on us soon; I'm sure of it. We need to move."

The dam opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. Rather than speaking, she nodded and followed Thorin, falling in behind him, and walking with the firm gait of a warrior.

Thorin's mind was in a whirl. Gandalf was back? Elrond had sent a dwarf to warn the Mountain? There had been something else that caught his attention that he didn't dare dwell on. Ginii had said Gandalf took the halfling. She must have been mistaken. Ginii didn't know, had never met his One. Gandalf might come back from the dead, but Billa was no Wizard.

He pushed the thought aside and ignored the pain twisting in his gut. He needed to rescue his sister and his kingdom from the rule of a mad dwarf. Before Thorin had fully processed the concept, they had arrived at the opposite door. This one had a tiny hole, just below eye level on Thorin, and a bubble of glass on the other side which allowed him to see a limited, but sufficient stretch of the hall beyond.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus. The hall was dimly lit, empty. At least, what he could see of it was.

"Princess Dís... her chambers are just down the corridor. To your left. Last I saw, heavily guarded." Ginii's voice was matter-a-fact, but Thorin sensed a tone of  _ "Don't do anything stupid." _

"And the rotations? On the hour?" It seemed the likeliest opportunity, but if the stars didn't align precisely in his favour, Thorin knew it was a slim chance. Not that it wasn't already.

"I'm not sure. They were pretty tight-lipped about it." Ginii's tone, again, carried that subtle warning. Thorin felt a twinge of irritation. He didn't have time for caution, for gathering information. This was a time for action, and for trusting to Mahal to pull the right strings to make this work.

A shiver crawled over him. It was a frightening thought.

"I'll have to risk it. Ginii, I trust you to carry this information to Fíli, should I fail." He didn't, really, but something in him seemed to whisper he wouldn't care if he was dead.

The rapid tap of fingers against leather made the dwarrowdam's anxiety clear. "I don't like to leave you to this alone, sir. I'd prefer to stay with you, to defend you if need be."

"If we are discovered, fighting will be no use," Thorin murmured soberly. "We might fight off the guards near the door, but not without alerting others. I will be better off on my own." He understood Ginii's need to defend, but in this instance, it was secrecy or nothing.

"I task you with bringing word to my nephew if I fail, and forbidding him to come after me. He would do well to find allies and seek a safer course."

If such a course could be found. Fíli was sensible, though. He wouldn't toss his life - or the lives of his companions - to the winds of chance. He'd grown much from the dwarf who had run from Erebor to the Lake with little more than the shirt on his back and faint hopes of seeing his brother and his One alive again.

"Watch carefully," Thorin instructed somewhat perfunctorily, putting a gloved hand to the door lever. "But see you're not caught in the process."

The iron mechanism clanked heavily, and the stone shifted just enough to allow him passage into the hall beyond. He turned once more, catching the dam's gaze a moment before parting with a nod.

Then the door was closed, and he had no choice but to move forward with his slightly insane, possibly suicidal plan. Thorin took a moment to adjust his helm and smooth his tunic before stepping confidently out of the nook that concealed the door.

He affected a purposeful stride as he proceeded down the hall, allowing his gaze to move smoothly along the stone, lingering only momentarily on the group of guards standing stiffly along the walls of the antechamber. He felt their eyes on him, but sensed he garnered little suspicion.

They were muttering idly to each other, and only slightly lowered their volume as he passed. Six in total, Thorin was sure.

The fact they would see fit to guard their queen so heavily suggested Dain thought such an attempt might be on the cards.

Acting on a half-formed idea, he past them down the hall, as though looking for someone. As he'd suspected, there was another dwarf walking a patrol further down. Putting on an annoyed scowl, he marched back down the hall and up to the six guards, who regarded him with varying levels of suspicion and amusement.

"Any of you seen Grimbal?" he asked sourly, choosing a common name for his imaginary missing dwarf. "He said he was on duty down here tonight and my sister's gonna tear my head off if I don't bring 'im back sharpish." Again, his Iron Hills accent wasn't the best, but at least two of the dwarves seemed convinced, trading knowing looks.

Before any of them could respond, a set of heavy boots approached, and as Thorin turned to see who was coming, his heart nearly stopped. Dain was stumping down the hall, and veered straight into the crowded alcove.

"Open the door," he grunted. "You and you, in with me." He pointed at a dwarf with dark hair and cunning eyes and at Thorin. Thorin couldn't believe his luck.

The guards, of course, admitted the three with no hesitation, and Thorin realised he was holding his breath as the heavy door clicked shut behind them and was locked.

The chamber was sparsely appointed, dark and grim, but at least a small fire burned in the grate, lending meagre warmth to the small room, in one corner of which a figure stood, slump-shouldered and unassuming.

"My King."

Thorin's chest seized. His sister's voice was weaker than he remembered, strength and vibrancy replaced with doubt and the heaviness of fearful thought.

Dain hesitated a moment, head lowered in uncharacteristic indecision. "My Queen.... I believe we have come to it at last. You must understand. None of this is... easy for me."

Thorin's temporary paralysis seemed to vanish, replaced by a heady, burning awareness. He could finish this, here and now.

The usurper was here. He had no one to defend him. Not in here. Surely not this other guard, who would never be able to stop him in time - even if he realised what was going on before it was too late. Thorin's insides twisted, painful and intensely hot with the immediacy of the end. Dain - the one who had betrayed him, the one who had, albeit indirectly, stolen his life and his love from him - was in his hands.

The world, however, didn't stop around him, as it seemed it surely should.

"It's a comfort to know it's not easy for you." Dís' words, though lacking her usual energy, were still barbed. Dain twitched slightly.

"I wouldn't... if there was another way." He sounded almost regretful. Thorin wondered only very vaguely what they were talking about. Riding a wave of hot adrenaline, he drew the ax from his belt, lifted it, and-

"Behind you!" Dís screamed the warning, and Thorin almost looked over his shoulder to see what she meant.

Dain whirled, lurching back in time to avoid the swinging blade.

The other guard's ax was out in a trice, though Dain's hand fumbled uselessly at his empty belt. In the hair's breadth between instants, it occurred to Thorin this wasn't at all like Dain. He'd never be unprepared, unarmed, disoriented.

The guard was more efficient, edging past the table to stand before his king.

Dís stood silently, mouth partially agape. Thorin realised she couldn't know who he was; not with the helm covering his entire face. Even so... she would warn this coward and traitor of his doom? Warn a dwarf who had disgraced her, disgraced their family, taken  _ everything _ from them? It was too shocking to accept, too abhorrent to believe.

In rapid Iglishmek, he signed,  _ Sister _ , keeping the ax poised in his right hand. He signed again to ensure she'd seen it.  _ Sister mine _ .

What color was left in Dís' face drained away rapidly. She stared at him with an expression that looked painfully like horror and guilt. He didn't have but a second longer to consider it.

The guard's ax whistled as it swung toward his head - a killing blow. Thorin half deflected, half dodged, using his momentum to shove a stout, heavy table against the door. The lip of it was just a little over the latch, and prevented the now alert guards outside from opening the door. It wouldn't hold them forever, but -

Blinding pain burst in his shield arm, and Thorin grunted, counter-striking and landing a ringing blow to the guard's helm. As he staggered, Thorin lunged past him, vaguely away of the blood on his left arm as he grabbed a handful of Dain's beard.

"Thorin!" His sister's voice rose in horror, plaintive and desperate. Dain's fingers closed around Thorin's wrist, more for stability, it seemed, than in response to pain.

The guard had just pushed himself upright when Thorin's ax haft connected with his face. The blow was solid, and Thorin didn't have to inspect the Iron Hills soldier to know he wouldn't be getting up again.

Thorin yanked off his helm and dropped it, turning his burning gaze on the usurper as his ax blade came to rest against Dain's throat.

"You should have killed me outright," he hissed through his teeth. "Did you think I would let you hurt my family? Destroy our people? You should have known I'd return."

Surprisingly, Dain still didn't retaliate. No blows or kicks, no insults or curses. Thorin remembered Dain in the Battle, butting heads with helmed orcs and knocking them soundly unconscious. Where was the vitality, the strength, the... Dain-ishness?

Thorin's hesitation, though it couldn't have lasted more than a second or two, was enough for his sister to act. She shoved her way between them, pushing the ax down and bracing herself against Thorin's arm.

"Don't, Brother. You don't have to kill him."

Thorin scowled. "After all he did, you're defending him?" Outrage bubbled inside him, and he felt Dain's hand on his wrist tighten slightly.

"Lady Dís." He sounded surprised, in a way. Maybe uncertain. Thorin wouldn't have blamed him. His sister shifted, turned a little to look at Dain, and Thorin caught a glimpse of his expression. Still not the grim look he used to wear, nor the befuddled expression from earlier, but his brown eyes were clear and alert and... worried?

Then Dain exploded.

At least, that's what it felt like. Like a mining blast, like an avalanche. Thorin was thrown back with such force that his feet actually left the ground. He hit the wall, and the sounds of breaking stone filled the air. Shattered stone rained down on his head. The dwarf lifted an arm to shield himself, but it didn't make much difference. Blackness came and went before his eyes, and it was hard to tell how long he sat there, half buried in rubble.

When at last things stopped shifting, Thorin's ears were ringing so he could hardly hear at all. He hauled himself upright with difficulty and scanned the wreckage for his sister and the Usurper. The door was destroyed, and there was no one outside. He called his sister's name, but received no answer.

Ruddy hair caught his eye, and Thorin looked toward the opposite wall. There was Dain, out cold, but still breathing. By some miracle, he didn't even look singed. As he stumbled toward his cousin, he passed the hollow of the fireplace - and that's where he found her. Dís was held partially upright by and decorative iron sconce that had impaled her through the chest. She seemed to be breathing, but only barely.

Thorin's mind rebelled, refused to believe it.  _ Not Dís. Not like this. _

He knelt beside her, brushing away chunks of brick and stone and scattered embers that had gathered on her during the blast. Something sticky and warm trickled thickly past his eye as he worked, but he ignored it. Ignored the throbbing in his ears, the pain in his head and arm.

"Sister." Removing his partially singed glove, he reached out to her, lifting her chin gently.

This seemed to rouse her a little. She grimaced, eyes shut, trembling as he tried to support her. The jagged metal pinning her to the brick beyond came loose surprisingly easily, though he didn't remove it from her body as he rested her gently on her back, cradling her head in his lap. To his horror, the dark stains on her dress, visible only faintly in the grim light admitted from the hall beyond, were spreading noticeably.

Thorin struggled against the disorientation threatening to overpower his senses. Dís, his only sister. Dís was dying, and he was to blame.

"Dís, please. Hold on. I- I'll find a healer. You're stronger than this.  _ Please. _ " The begging and pleading sounded strange, even to his partially ringing ears. The extent of her injuries was clear, but to accept such a reality... he couldn't bring himself to do it. "You're stronger. Just- just tell me what to do."

Dís' eyes didn't open, but one of her hands stirred weakly. He grasped it, as though holding onto her would keep her here, force her to continue living.

"Don't-" The word was hardly even a breath, and even that was cut short. The dwarrowdam began to cough, and alarming noises vibrated along the iron in her chest, bone grating against the metal.

"My sons..." The words were hardly intelligible, but Thorin knew. Dís continued to struggle, her efforts painful for him to watch. He squeezed her hand firmly, steadily.

"I'll look after them, Sister. You have my word and vow. As long as I draw breath."

Her shoulders eased a little, as though a weight had been removed, and her breathing grew shallower, less labored.

"Víli." Her last breath carried the name of her One, and Thorin's heart did its level best to seize in his chest. Dís was going to the Halls of Waiting, and no doubt to the rest she had earned so long ago. The pain in her face disappeared as her body relaxed, and Thorin was alone. There was no time for grief, no time for sorrow, but he stayed where he was and wept. How much more would he be asked to sacrifice? How much more could he possibly have to give?

Some minutes later, a scuffing sound behind him pulled him from his focus. Dís was gone, but he'd promised her. He couldn't allow himself to die when her sons might yet be in peril.

Dain was trying to sit up. Thorin had a hand on his throat in an instant, pinning the older dwarf to the floor.

"You killed her," he ground through clenched teeth, tears still hot on his face.

Dain choked, blinking rapidly to clear the dust from his eyes. He grasped the front of Thorin's stiff armor as though preparing to strike. Then an expression of relieved recognition crossed the dwarf's ruddy face.

"Thorin! Cousin, what's going on? Where's Dís?"

Thorin worked hard to restrain himself. Throttling the traitor would be all too easy, but Dís had been trying to tell him something. He'd have to seek it out.

"You killed her," he hissed again. "Don't pretend you didn't know what you were doing."

"Do you think I'm  _ mad, _ Thorin? I wouldn't kill Dís!" He seemed to realize how preposterous that claim was as he finally took in the wreckage around them. Eyes widening in dismay, he scanned the destroyed room, then spotted Dís, still and cold by the ruined hearth. With a cry, he jerked away from Thorin, or tried. He wasn't yet back to his old strength.

"This is your doing," Thorin growled, and shook the Usurper hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "You've ruined my home, my people, stolen my throne, threatened my family - you've killed my sister and my One. If you deserve anything better than a slow death, it's not by my hand."

Dain looked at him again, his face now very pale. "I tried to protect her."

Thorin strove for speech, bitterness and rage threatening to overwhelm his more civilized faculties. For the moment, his breathing seemed the most affected. He swallowed heavily, shaking his head, trying to clear it. He didn't have time for this. When at last words came, they were softer than they'd been in their formation, pitched low and stone cold.

"Your only thought was for power. How dare you claim to have  _ protected _ her?"

Dain exhaled heavily, still seeming in some state of shocked incredulity. "Believe me, Thorin. If I  _ have _ killed her, I deserve no less than you mean to give me. But she was my wife and queen. I tried to keep her safe."

Thorin snarled unintelligibly, reeling to his feet. "Enough. Get up!"

Dís wouldn't have wanted him to waste this chance. She'd have been more sensible, perhaps, in his place. She wouldn't have spent these precious moments debating with a coward and power-mad fool.

"You'll have your life, Dain. For now. As long as you remain useful. That is the way you see others, is it not? 'Useful'?"

Seizing the older dwarf's arm, he pulled him upright, and for his part, Dain tried to oblige. It took a moment, but soon, Thorin had successfully marched him to the ruined door, prodding him onward with a dagger, ax in his other hand. Before they moved out into the dim light, however, the dark-haired dwarf stole a final glance over his shoulder.

_ Farewell, sister. Mahal keep you until I follow. _

Dain didn't resist, and they didn't encounter any guards. Thorin felt the first prick of unease as they stepped out into the hall unchallenged. Where were the guards? Wouldn't the explosion have brought them running in to defend their Usurper king? But there was no one in the hallway.

Distantly, the clamor of voices echoed from the right, and Thorin considered turning toward it. But no. His task was to return to his Company with his hostage and deliver news to Nikû of her mistress' demise. It would be hard to speak of, but it would also be satisfying to see Nikû carve the answers out of Dain's hide. He remembered her fury with the boy Galan in Isengard, and guessed her anger would be no less when facing her mistress' murderer.

The secret door opened as he approached, and Ginii looked out at him, rather pale, but steady. "Come. I don't think we have much time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Thorin manages, with an enormous slice of luck, to sneak into the Mountain, and even into his sister's chambers, with the help of Ginii, who was trying to reach the Queen. Dain is undefended, but when Thorin prepares to put an end to the Usurper, Dís warns him. Thorin and Dain fight until Dís interrupts, telling Thorin that he doesn't have to kill the Usurper. Then an explosion of unknown cause and origin demolishes the room, blasting the dwarves off their collective feet. Dain and Thorin are knocked senseless, but Dís is fatally injured in the explosion, and dies in her brother's arms after making him promise to protect her sons.  
> Thorin returns to the secret passage by which he had approached the royal wing, taking Dain with him, and wishing he could kill the dwarf responsible (*cough*Dain*cough*) for his sister's death.


	33. Billa; Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billa and Gandalf have (finally) arrived at the Mountain, and things aren't looking good at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter.   
> Not as traumatic as the last one. We're nearing the end, folks, and things will get rougher before they smooth out for our favorite dwarves (and hobbit). 
> 
> In other news: I'm sorry about the late post. Things got busier than usual at work than I anticipated. I will post again later today to make up for it, since this is such a short chapter. :)

Billa squinted at the gates, shut tight, as they'd expected. She'd already slid from the saddle, sore in ways and places she didn't want to think about now. The ride had been interminable, and she'd spent most of it desperately trying to hold back the sorry biscuits Gandalf had dared refer to as "meals." Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Gandalf was urgently issuing orders to the troops he'd rallied, voice low, hushed with concern. Their numbers were all too few, and with the refusal of Thranduil to lend his troops, what could a few of Elrond's folk, a sparse and untrained group of Bard's men, and some exhausted dwarven refugees be expected to do? Rumors of Orc presence might be just that, but the Mountain was barricaded and well-defended. They certainly couldn't hope to put up a siege. It might be months before any help came from the Blue Mountains, and by then, who knew what might happen?

Even now, the murmuring of the Lake Men around the hobbit put her ill at ease. They seemed a hair's breadth from turning back, and she could hardly blame them. If Gandalf had a plan, it would need to be a fine one.

"What can be done, Bard?" she asked softly, glancing up at the dour man on the chestnut horse beside her. He raised his eyebrows, an uncertain smile ghosting across his features. If he was trying to be reassuring, he wasn't succeeding. 

Billa sighed, and wondered (not for the first time) why it had been so important for her to come on this mad venture. It was about then that she saw a familiar ginger dwarf, and her heart leapt.

"Glóin!" Then she saw the others. "Bofur! Fíli! You're all alright!" Her gait was an ungainly limping waddle and she inwardly cursed horses and Wizards alike as she and the dwarves. converged on one another with glad cries.

She noticed, with the joy, a certain sense of incredulity. Fíli got to her first, sized her up a moment, then flung his arms around her, lifting her bodily from the ground.

"Ow!" she protested, smiling through a wince. "Fíli! Fee!"

He set her down, laughing, apologizing. "Didn't expect to see you alive again, Billa. Should've known you'd make it through alright."

"Thorin's in a bad way," Bofur offered, as though reading her mind. "Went in alone." He nodded toward the distant gates.

Billa's happiness drained away in one fell swoop and she thought she felt the blood leave her face at the same time. "You let him go in there alone?" She knew her tone was too sharp, and saw the guilt and frustration pass across Fíli's haggard expression.

"It was... the best plan we could come up with." He gave her a significant look, and she remembered walking into Smaug's lair alone.

"If he's not dead already," she threatened, eyes stinging with tears, "I'll kill him."

"No time for that, I'm afraid." Gandalf put his hand on her shoulder, and there was but the barest flicker of a smile in his eyes. "Now it is time to make our parlay, and prepare for the coming of enemies yet unseen."

Fíli nodded, assessing Gandalf with equal wonder. Had he known about the Wizard's death? Possibly. There would have been plenty of clues available.

"Bard." Gandalf caught the bowman's eyes gravely. "You and I will go to the Gate. Billa, you must remain behind." He raised a hand to silence her protests, and a small part of the hobbit made her wish he couldn't predict her so well.

"But... Thorin," she insisted anyway, gesturing adamantly at the gate. "He's in there, Gandalf. You can't-"

"I can, and I'm afraid I must." Gandalf's tone was sympathetic, but firm. "You will be needed before long, my dear hobbit. But not at the gate."

His gaze shifted slightly and rested on Fíli. "Will we have your aid, Son of Dís?" he asked, and Billa could sense that it really was a choice. Fíli hesitated for only the barest instant before answering firmly.

"I'll be at your side, Gandalf." Billa swore she saw his glance flick to her briefly, and felt a promise had been made. Whichever of them found Thorin first would defend him with deed and body. To the death, if necessary. She nodded to him, feeling an unfamiliar grim look cross her face. 

She knew it would be there a while.

Bard dismounted, handing his reins to a tall, dark-haired man standing nearby. His second-in-command. He'd introduced himself at some point, but Billa couldn't recall his name.

The small group moved steadily toward the gate, the moon-glow casting their shadows dimly before them, the wind whistling between the stones and stirring cloaks and hair. The hobbit huddled into her coat as she watched, hands moving automatically to rest over her prominent belly. The child was squirming again, kicking restlessly. She wondered if the little one was affected by her own anxious thoughts, by the worry in her voice.

"Miss Baggins." One of the Elves who had accompanied Fíli stood beside her, looking concerned. Bofur and Gloin were clearly somewhat to blame, but seemed to be hanging back now. Probably some sort of... dwarven propriety. "You're in a delicate state, if I may say so. You should rest." The elf was fair-haired and dressed in the colors of the Imladris Guard.

Billa made to protest, but stopped short when words simply didn't form. She _was_ tired. Exhausted, in fact. Denying that wouldn't be honest, or convincing.

The elf smiled reassuringly. "These men will keep watch. We'll find somewhere for you to get out of this wind. At least until we've received word of the parlay."

Billa sighed, silently accepting that she would be no use to anyone if she didn't rest, as the elf said. She reached up and took the elf's hand, which seemed to startle the Imladris guard in a rather amusing way. Billa imagined the guard might have worn a similar expression if Elrond himself had hiked up his robe and danced a jig in the Hall of Fire.

"Lead the way," the hobbit managed to say, giving the elf a faint smile and nod. Like a mother leading a precious child, the elf did so, guiding Billa around to a small dell, where Gimli was just finishing piling all their bedding into one small nest. He backed off hastily as Billa and her escort approached.

In times less grave, Billa might have laughed at the wide berth she was being given by her former companions. As though her condition might be aggravated by their very presence, or... as if her condition was somehow sacred. She didn't much like that thought. She didn't understand it.

The elf was hastily spreading the bedding, layering blankets into something of a mattress, and then patting them biddingly. "Come, Miss Baggins."

Wordlessly, the tired halfling lowered herself gingerly, onto the bedding, and was quickly swaddled in several more blankets. Wool, worn and smelling strongly of campfires. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. In that scent was the memory of so many nights spent in the wilds, more often than not hungry and weary, but content. He'd been at her side, then. Thorin. That was all she wished for now, more than a mountain of comforts. Maybe, just maybe, when she opened her eyes again, he'd be here. She sent up a silent prayer, too tired to care if such thoughts were selfish.

The elf had rolled another blanket tightly, and was pressing it gently beneath her curly head. "Sleep now, my lady. I will wake you for tea in an hour."

Billa chuckled faintly. "Wake me for tea. That's... impossible." She was amused, but too tired to explain to the startled elf that she hadn't had a proper tea since leaving Bag End. Dwarves didn't know anything about tea.

Billa dropped off quickly after that, and fell into vague and disturbing dreams. Thorin was in danger, and... angry. So very angry. And hurt. But not physically. She wanted so badly to help him, but he always seemed out of reach. And there was Dain, and another dwarf she didn't recognize. And there was a tall figure in white - Billa woke with a cry of terror, sitting up so fast she actually headbutted Bofur. She suspected this hurt her more than it hurt him, but she groaned an apology all the same.

He waved it off, though she thought he looked a bit uneasy. 

"Alright, Billa?" he asked, glancing down at her as she relaxed back onto the pillows, panting lightly.

"F-fine," she answered shakily, rubbing her eyes. "What's- what's the news? Anything?"

He looked very grave. "T'ey came back, sure. Weren't a pretty sight. Parlay didn't exactly go as t'ey planned."

Billa sat up again sharply, and Bofur winced, looking somewhat guilty. "Y'need t' rest. Can't be movin' about like-"

"What happened at the parlay?" the halfling demanded, quite prepared to ring the truth out of the dwarf by his neck if necessary.

It was only as she grabbed the front of Bofur's loose jacket that he yelped the answer to her question. "Didn't go well. Bard got bruised with a few stones an' Fili's got an arrow in 'is arm. Please, Billa, calm down!" He looked terrified, as if moving about might cause her to burst into flame.

Billa's heart seized, her grip on Bofur slackening. "Fíli?" She sent her gaze about, hoping for a glimpse of the blonde. "Where is he? Is he alright?"

It was a lot of questions, and she could sense, even amidst her desperation, Bofur's desire to protect her.

"Fíli's fine. If I know the lad... won't stop 'im long." The hatted dwarf swallowed, looking unpleasantly like he might be sick.

"And... Thorin?" Billa was nearly breathless, but forced her tone to remain even.

"Bad news," Bofur said quietly, shaking his head, pigtails swinging in a way Billa would have found endearing in happier times. "How much of't is true, we d'know."

The hobbit clenched her teeth, the full portent of what he might say washing over her like an ice cold waterfall. "Out with it," she hissed, and Bofur squirmed, eyes lowered.

"The Princess Dís is... dead. Dain too, by t'sound of't. Murdered by an intruder. Disguised as an Iron Hills guard."

There was a brief pause, and when Bofur realized she was still looking at him expectantly, he explained. "Thorin was wearin' Iron Hills armor t' git inside."

At first, the implications didn't penetrate. They didn't make sense. Thorin? Kill Dís? No. Never. Dain, maybe, but he deserved it. But  _ Dís? _

"They must have it wrong. Or maybe there's a different intruder. Thorin wouldn't do that." Billa shook her head. The more frightening part of the story dawned on her then. Thorin had been discovered. "Oh, spirits - don't tell me they've captured him?"

Bofur shook his head. "Not from what I heard."

The halfling folded into herself with relief, took a moment to collect herself, then raised her gaze again. Other things she hadn't noticed before about her surroundings came into focus. The fire crackling nearby. A few dark figures pacing slowly about, elves dwarves, men. Worried murmurs and whispers. Untroubled by such things, the celestial bodies peered down as brightly as ever from the night sky, though the clouds were rushing to obscure them, driven on by the incessant wind.

"Where's Gandalf?" the halfling asked at last, quieter than she had been. "What's he planning?" What could Dain's soldiers possibly hope to achieve, feeding them all such a boldfaced lie? It had to be a lie. Had to be. Billa had to check the impulse to march straight to the gates and find the truth of the whole matter. Well, she didn't have the Ring now, so a lot of good that would do.

Bofur stared unhappily at his boots. "Gone," he said simply. "Not sure where 'e's gotten off to."

"So, just to make sure I've got this straight; we've lost our king, the Wizard is missing, our prince is injured, we have no allies, and no one can get into or out of the Mountain. Is that about right?" Billa felt the urge to scream, but that was probably a lot more to do with hysteria than anything else. Bofur gave her a miserable, pleading look as he nodded, as though silently asking her not to talk about it anymore.

"Well, at least things can't get any worse," she grumbled, and began the process of finding food, only to be interrupted by things getting worse.

Someone yelled "orcs!" and feeding the hobbit promptly fell off the list of priorities.

Bard's voice was a stabilizing factor amidst the pandemonium, ordering his men to arms and forming them into ranks. Most of the men were sleep-stupid, ill used to such rigorous requirements, but then, few were trained soldiers, and they could hardly be blamed.

The scout who had caught sight of the enemy could report little more of use than that he'd spotted the Orc-host from his perch on the hills above. They were some two miles up the southeastern mountain road, at least a thousand strong, possibly more, banners black and bearing a white hand.

Bard was nodding, face grim.

"Gandalf has not been seen since last night, and in his absence, I must lead as need requires. The city would be a safer defense."

Billa studied the unimpressive force a moment before turning to the Lord of Dale. The darkness was beginning to lift, the sky beyond the rocky hills a deep blue. In the dim light, the hobbit couldn't decipher Bard's mood. He seemed torn, as if leaving was some kind of retreat, rather than a strategy.

"It might not even be us they're coming for," she said quietly, and was half-surprised the former bargeman heard her over the jingling of maille and the nervous stamping of horses.

"Aye. Seems more likely that they're aiming to attack the Mountain. But any man I send to warn them is just as likely to be attacked from the gate as to be killed by orcs."

Bard's gaze was sharp and grim as he looked down at her, and Billa felt a writhing in her gut that had nothing to do with the child she carried. The Mountain was in trouble, and Thorin with it. The idea made her slightly sick, and she closed her eyes. She couldn't afford to think about what was happening to Thorin right now. 

"Into the hills," ordered Bard, his voice strong and steady as he spoke over her to the men nearby. "Take the high ground and don't engage the orcs unless we can't avoid it."


	34. Dain & Fíli; Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dain is struggling with making his mind work, but his thoughts seem to fall apart as quickly as he can put it together again.  
> Then Fíli watches as chaos blooms outside the gates of Erebor, and tries to protect Billa in the midst of an Orc attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second update for today, as promised. Another short chapter, but I figure this part of the story is easier to swallow in smaller chunks, anyway. 
> 
> :) Happy January, everyone!

The stone was hard and cold, even through his light armor, and Dain found himself pressing harder against the wall than he would have admitted. Thorin's breathing was labored as he, too, flattened himself against the wall. His hand around Dain's wrist was like a steel vice. Did he expect his cousin to run?

Unlikely.

The King under the Mountain was still trying to wrap his head around what was happening, and struggling to fill the gaps in his memory. Perhaps they weren't gaps per say, but they were stretches of memory so blurred that he might have suspected he had been drunk, if the blurred stretches weren't so long.

Thorin was a reasonable dwarf, under most circumstances. That much Dain had always known. He wasn't mad, or cruel, or prone to turn against his kin.

But something had set them at odds - something he could scarcely remember now. Something _before_ he'd murdered Thorin's sister. None of it really made sense, and the blurs in his memory seemed inextricably linked to the Wizard - the stark, wizened face and piercing dark eyes forever emblazoned on his mind, flashing in the gaps.

"We keep moving. Out of the Mountain." Thorin's voice grounded him, pulled him back from the brink. Dain nodded slowly.

"Aye. It's... this place. He's here. In every stone." The words were jumbling and slurring now, and he was certain Thorin thought him mad. But he wasn't.

His cousin dragged him on through the hall, cautiously, pulling him into a passageway Dain knew vaguely - some half-remembered tidbit also connected to the Wizard. The more he thought about it, the more it pained him, so he put it aside.

The passage was dark, and contained another dwarf - a dam, by the sound of it.

Thorin conversed with her in hushed tones; it didn't concern him. He drifted away, shutting his eyes, the muted voices rolling on and on at the edges of his consciousness.

In a way, perhaps he should have cared more about what they were saying, about who this stranger was, and what would happen next, but the pull of the past was stronger. The desire to fill in the blanks, to hammer out the wrinkles, made it impossible to think of anything else.

"Don't wander off." Thorin's voice was a rough growl, startling Dain back to reality even before a hard, calloused hand gripped his shoulder.

"Where would I go? He's everywhere. In the stones..." No, he'd already said that. Dain opened his eyes and tried to concentrate. "I've no reason to run."

The dam appeared at Thorin's shoulder, her small lantern shuttered and dim, throwing black shadows across her face. "We can't stay here. Time is short."

"Is it ever not?" Thorin's voice rose bitterly, and the hand on Dain's shoulder pulled him irresistibly along, deeper into the blackness.

The scent was musty and cold, stone long sealed and untouched by light and warmth of flame. Why this made the greatest impression on him, Dain didn't know. It was like a tomb, maybe.

With the lantern shuttered, it made no difference whether his eyes were open or closed, so he closed them.

The voice. Deep, impossibly resonant. It told him what he already knew - that escape would not be so easy. Not for him. Not for any of them.

He shuddered noticeably, and felt the grip on his shoulder tighten.

"What?"

"You can't mean to go through the main gate. You'll be caught."

"As you'd prefer, I expect." Thorin's cynical tone pained Dain for reasons he didn't understand. Something was blocked; it was as though he knew the knowledge existed, but simply couldn't access it.

"Do you have a plan, Cousin, or don't you?"

"I wouldn't tell you, even if I had." Thorin's retort was so sharp it felt like a blade. Dain felt the urge to ask why Thorin was so angry, but remembering the sight of Dís bleeding to death stopped the words in his throat. He had liked Dís. She was a strong, loyal dam.

"He'll see us," he protested, unsure if the words made sense at all.

Thorin and the dam with them stopped. "He who?"

Dain grasped for a name to attach to the face, the voice, the claw-like hands, the icy gaze... and came up empty. "I can't remember."

A brief pause. They likely thought him mad. But he _wasn't_.

"Do you know any other way out of the Mountain?" Thorin asked finally. "If you've one shred of remorse for what you've done, which I doubt, tell me something of use."

Dain considered, mind spinning as he racked it for openings. Possibilities.

"There is one way, Cousin," he said presently. "You're not going to like it."

* * *

Fíli peered at the Mountain, straining his aching eyes to see what was happening. Opposite the gate, the orcs had stopped at the mouth of the shallow valley, a seething mass of black armor and banners. The White Hand was hardly more than a smear of lighter color in the morning twilight. Bard had cautiously moved them further into the foothills so they would have the higher ground if the orcs attacked, but it seemed the ugly mob was under some sort of command, with orders not to attack yet. That was the only thing that made sense.

The gates opened, then closed. A band of Dwarves were moving along the Mountain's face, up into the hills and toward Bard's group. Everyone was tense, even the horses.

It was one of the Elves that finally spoke. "There are a dozen Dwarves, and four carry a burden - a fallen comrade, I think. They are led by one wearing a helm fashioned as a crown, and his beard is red, streaked with grey."

"Dain," Billa managed breathlessly, and Fíli nodded.

"Might be a trap. Putting us off our guard." The blond rolled tense shoulders, shaking off exhaustion and stiffness. His sword hand rested on the pommel of his weapon.

Bard sidled up to the two, watching the approaching figures grimly. "Who is the fallen dwarf? To what purpose would they-?" He trailed off, and Fíli could tell they'd both simultaneously found an answer neither wished for.

_Thorin_. Fíli's throat tightened painfully as the implication registered, but he said nothing aloud. Billa would find out soon enough.

"Draw the horsemen well back. If this is a trap, I don't want to be caught in it." Bard issued the order grimly, and his eyes were hard as he spoke. Fíli thought to himself that Bard was not a man he would want as an enemy. Then the man turned to Billa and knelt. "I want you to pull back as well, little mother. This may not end well, and I promised Gandalf I would protect you."

"But... but what if Thorin's with them?" There was more weakness in the Hobbit's protest than Fíli had ever heard before. This was a dam waiting for her One, and his heart ached for her. Gently, he put a hand on her shoulder.

"He'll understand. If all is well, we'll be together again soon."

Reluctantly, Billa allowed herself to be led away by the female elf. Out of the corner of his eye, Fíli saw them settle among the rocks on the slope above, where they would be able to see what happened, but far enough away that they would hear nothing, and were out of the range of thrown axes.

A sturdy young Dwarf moved to the front of Dain's party as they approached, then advanced beyond them to call in a strong voice, "We come to parlay, and bear news of the death of one of your Company. We mean no harm."

Fíli steadied himself, stepping to the fore to answer the parlay. His view of the dwarf on the stretcher was blocked partially, but even so, he recognized the armored figure - his uncle's build and stature as sure a giveaway as any.

"What use is your parlay?" he asked, cold horror draining all passion from his voice. "We begged a parlay some hours ago, and received arrows for our trouble." The pain still twinged hotly in his arm, though elven hands and ointments had lessened it to some degree.

Fíli watched as the red-bearded Dwarf nodded to his herald, indicating he should continue. The young Dwarf filled his lungs and called back, though he seemed less that certain.

"New information changes much. My lord would speak concerning Thorin Thrainson Oakenshield. Will you hear him?"

There was ice in his veins, or perhaps cold lead. Fíli felt heavy and sluggish, but only for a moment. Then fire replaced the lead, burning away the weight and the grief and the fear.

"I will hear him, but I won't promise his safety, if he is the cause of my uncle's death."

"Who is it, Fíli?"

The blonde exhaled tensely, shaking his head at the curly-haired female beside him. A quick backward glance revealed the former bargeman, looking somewhat baffled by the halfling's escape.

"Billa, you were supposed to stay with Bard," Fíli urged hastily. "Please - go back."

But Dain had already stepped forward, head bowed slightly, helm nestled in the crook of his right arm.

"Thorin's final wish was to be returned to his Company."

Fíli half-winced. Dain's voice hadn't been as loud as the herald's, but even so - there was no way Billa had missed it.

"Final...?" Billa's voice faltered, and Fíli could sense the same chill dread sweeping through her as had just passed through him. She tried to lunge forward, but Fíli caught her arm, retraining her. Dain gazed at her with a perplexed expression, as if he'd never seen her before.

"We should conclude our business quickly," said Dain, turning his gaze back to Fíli. "I feel the orc host will not be long held by his orders."

"His? Whose?" Bard had moved forward to take the Hobbit, but was distracted by the hint of new information. Dain's brow furrowed, as if with intense concentration, but before he could say more, a cry tore from the Hobbit's throat. It was half wail, half sob, all grief.

"THORIN!" The wail didn't stop after that, but his name was the only word that could be distinguished. Fíli closed his eyes, as if that would block out the pain of it, so he didn't see what happened next. Someone yelled something that sounded like the Hobbit's name. Someone else bellowed in wordless rage, and it wasn't a Dwarf. Then the world was nothing but noise.

When he opened his eyes, the orcs were in a frenzy, swarming up the valley toward the gate. A group of them had already split off and were dashing madly up the hill toward them, slavering like beasts on the hunt.

Things happened quickly - too quickly for Fíli's failing comprehension. Bard was spiriting the hobbit away. Dwarves were pulling him further up the rocky slopes, shouting at each other to move faster. He lost sight of Dain and his entourage as the world around him descended into chaos.

"Form ranks!" Bard bellowed from somewhere, and Fíli collected himself enough to join the tentative line.

"Where's Billa?" he asked those around him. "Did Bard get her out? She can't be here!"

_His_ One was safe; the least he could do was keep Billa alive - for Thorin. Not that the chances of that looked very good at present.

"One o' the Elves has 'er." Bofur was beside him, armed with a round shield and a long spear. Made by the Men of Dale, Fíli would guess. But his mind wasn't on their weapons. He drew his sword.

"Fíli..." Bofur shot him a sidelong look. "I'm sorry. Fer everything." The blond Dwarf might have said something in reply, but there was no time. The orcs were upon them, and everything after that was just chaos. Ugly orc faces, dirty orc blades, gaps in orc armor, thick orc blood.

Perhaps his perception of time was warped, but Fíli thought it hadn't been very long before there was a clear space around him. Several orc bodies littered the hillside about him, but the nearest group of orcs seemed to be fighting each other. No doubt they would turn on Bard's group when they were done with each other. The best way to end this quickly would be to attack them while they were distracted.

"For Erebor!" He bellowed at the top of his lungs, and that attracted several of Dain's guards to his side. "For Erebor!" With hoarse cries of "Erebor" and "Moria," Fíli and his little band dove into the orcs, scattering them like leaves in a gale.

These brutes were poorly trained, Fíli thought. Like the ones under Azog's command. Too quickly bred, all sinewy muscle and little battle-wit. Or cohesion. Something was off.

They seemed distracted. No leaders shouting orders, no noticeable guidance. The orcs seemed bent on destroying whatever happened to be around them at the moment- even their fellows.

While the rest of Bard's forces engaged the splinter group, Fíli turned to look down the valley toward the gates. The same malady, it seemed, had taken the rest of the orcs. There was none of the single-minded, brutal drive behind their movements. None of the strategy he expected. Smaller groups were brawling, and those not engaged in the quarrels stood still. Directionless. Not a one bothered with the gate before them, though they stood just outside arrow's reach of the wall.

Fíli squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A bit of white, just before the dark horde. Standing perfectly still amidst the chaotic, shifting backdrop.


	35. Thorin; Impossible Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is in full swing, and Thorin makes several less than pleasant discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter as a draft since the 2nd of February and never posted it. *shame* Curse me for a forgetful fool.

Even in the midst of battle, when everything was focused on his weapon and the snarling faces of his enemies, Thorin felt as though he stood on shifting sand. His mind continually returned to the moment before the Orcs had charged, the moment when someone had called his name. A female someone. Someone that sounded like Billa.

But that was impossible. Billa was dead. Killed by the Wizard. Hope was dangerous. He tried to stamp it out, but it returned again and again, refusing to be snuffed out completely. 

When the last of the orcs in his immediate vicinity had fallen, gurgling on its own blood, Thorin at last examined his surroundings. A miasma of dark smoke and noise pressed in upon them, choking the air. Oily torches and the raucous clanking of heavy machinery. Siege weapons were rounding the rocky hills, drawn by war beasts of great size and hideous aspect. The accompanying force was different, Thorin noted. The gear and attire were reddish and ornamented, not the drab black and grey of the orcs. No doubt the Wizard intended to press every advantage in this undertaking.

Fíli. He needed to find Fíli. His sister-son. Make sure he was safe. He'd promised Dís.

He heard the distant roar - "For Erebor!" - and at first thought he was thinking it. It sounded like an echo of his own voice. Then he saw a flash of blond leading a small band of armored dwarves into the valley, into the path of the huge beasts and their threatening load.

_ Not safe. _

The thought was true, if not terribly helpful. He glanced around to see what backup he could summon, and found himself in a void. He cursed aloud, wishing Dwalin were here. Instead, Dain appeared at his elbow, the light of battle in his eyes and a shallow cut across his forehead leaking fat drops of blood into his eye.

"What's the plan?" he asked, eyes bright and clear for the first time since they'd met outside of Dís' room in the Mountain.

"Pull them back." Thorin recovered a bit, steadied by his cousin's voice. Dain wasn't Dwalin, but his support was better than none. "Follow me. Quickly."

Pushing past Bard's forces, he jogged after the departing troop, Dain on his heels. "Fíli!"

He had to bring him back. Stop him. He'd throw away his life; he didn't know. Didn't know his uncle yet lived.

But then - the thought of the news he carried, the news to be relayed when next such a chance arose. Thorin wouldn't tell him. Not until all else was settled, or no longer mattered.

"Come, Dain. Hurry!"

Dain had always had an impressive set of lungs, even when they were young. Thorin shouldn't have been surprised when he heard his cousin suck in a deep breath and bellow at the top of his voice - "Fall back! Take the high ground! To the king! To the king!"

The orders echoed and rebounded, repeated by dwarven voices above and below them on the slopes. Dain's warriors were well trained. Fíli's compliment swung 'round, beating it back up the slope and bringing the blond with them. 

Thorin turned a grateful glance on his cousin, then moved to pick his way through the craggy rocks further up into the hills, following the press of regrouping soldiers. He had just rounded a crumbling, lichen-blotched boulder when something hit him from the side.

Even through his armor, he recognized the weight, the pressure and placement. He fell back slightly, but the hit wasn't intended to take him down.

"Uncle!"

Thorin knew they didn't have time for much in the way of a family reunion, but he put his arms around Fíli, holding the young dwarf against his side.

"Sister-son."

When Fíli let go of him, Thorin boxed his ears. "If you ever do anything like that again, I'll lock you in a cell for the next century."

Bard was the next to interrupt Thorin's progress up the hill.

"We've little time." The former bargeman's face looked slightly stricken. "Look back. Quickly. Toward the gates."

Thorin did look. But his eyes apparently missed what the man meant; little seemed to have changed. Saruman's forces stood, focused once more, it seemed. Completely still. Waiting. The siege weapons and their escort clanked on, ever closer.

"I'm afraid containing your burglar was beyond my skill - expecting or not." Bard's grey-green gaze was filled with incredulity. "Look there, on the plain. Halfway to the gates."

Thorin spotted the tiny figure in blue moving across the plain before the words really sank in. "Burglar?" He stared hard at the spot of blue below them.

"Yes. Miss Baggins. I tried to keep her out of the battle-"

"She's here? She's alive?" Thorin had already started moving, but a thick hand closed around his arm. Dain was beside him.

"Thorin, we have to regroup. You have to lead them." 

Thorin's mind spun. This wasn't... couldn't be....

"We need you."

But how? There had been so many signs. _How?_

"Uncle?"

He didn't have time for this. More than Billa relied on him at the moment, and the balance of need obligated him to stay.

He needed to focus. Their tiny force would hardly be more than a spark to be extinguished by the dark, raging flood below. Their safest defense was the Mountain itself, but passage was blocked. Who held Erebor? The Wizard's control must not have been complete, else the gates would have opened to receive his own forces.

Unless something else was preventing it.

"Dain. What do you know? What do you remember? Who controls the Mountain?"

Dain frowned, deeply troubled by the question. "I'm sorry, Thorin-" Then he paused. "Someone with... white in his beard. He was with  _ him _ ."

"Lord Gedin?" prompted one of the nearby warriors with a frown at Thorin. "He's one of the council elders, and Your Majesty's chief advisor."

Dain looked even more confused. "Majesty?"

horin didn't have time to sort Dain out. His warriors looked perplexed at the fact that they were conversing with the "dead" dwarf they'd been carrying, but they'd probably be of more use at the moment than Dain.

"You, what do you know?" he asked the one who had spoken. "Where do Lord Gedin's loyalties lie? With Dain, or with the Wizard?"

The dwarf hesitated only a moment. Accustomed to following orders, he delivered the answers Thorin sought when he realized Dain wasn't going to tell him not to.

"Lord Gedin has been deep in the Wizard's counsel since Lord Saruman arrived, and before then, I think. We had strange orders from Gedin a few times, delivering goods to strange places and returning later for payment, which was left in the same place. Never saw who were were selling to."

Thorin nodded, scrambling madly for options. "As I thought. Is there anyone else in a position of authority who _isn't_ under Saruman's sway?"

The guard thought a moment, glancing once more at Dain for permission. Dain was again muttering incomprehensibly to himself, and took no notice as the dwarf replied.

"There is the king's son. Thorin Stonehelm. He arrived not long ago."

"How much authority does he have in the Mountain?" Thorin could hear the dubious tone to the words, though he hadn't intended to put it there.

"He is well liked by the Guard, and has the loyalty of those who follow the King." The dwarf nodded pointedly to Dain, who abruptly stopped his muttering and stared hard at the warrior with such a fierce expression that the poor dwarf took a step back.

"And Dain was likely oblivious all the while," Thorin mused. Dain's fearsome demeanor shifted slightly toward penitence, but Thorin couldn't be sure just how cognizant he was. He seemed to be experiencing periods of lucidity, but was mostly a jumble - as though drifting between versions of reality, unaware which was true and which wasn't.

The guard pursed his lips thoughtfully, recognizing, perhaps, that Dain was in no mind to lead or issue commands at present. All loyalty aside, he and his comrades had to realize Thorin was their best hope for escaping the field alive, or at least, meeting a worthy end in the process.

"We can get no message to Stonehelm," another guard supplied finally, glancing at his fellows as if to see they were all of one mind. "Our numbers are few enough, and our allies slim. But we'll follow you, if you aim to lead us."

Thorin scanned the faces around him, then nodded. It had to be this way. A quick survey of the battlefield showed that the main body of the orc host had moved past them, advancing toward the figure in white and the diminutive burglar at his side. What was she doing? Was it even her? Was he hallucinating? He hoped not.

"Fili, you head into the hills. Find the elves if you can. If this goes ill, you have to go back to Rivendell. Your brother needs you."

"But Uncle-" Fili's protest died in his throat when Thorin turned to look at him. Thorin didn't have the heart to say aloud what burned in his mind, the expression on his sister's face, the weight of her words, her trust in him.

"Go, Fili.Stay safe. I'll come find you as soon as I can." 

With a weak nod, Fíli turned away. In the moment before their gazes parted, Thorin recognized all that time and situation did not permit the blond to express. Anger, of course, but also respect and acceptance. Thorin would remember it, and hold it dearly in the hours to come. Dís' sons would live, as he perhaps would not.

"All you, follow," he said loudly, breaking from the reverie with a will. "If the gates have not opened for Saruman, he does not yet hold complete sway over Erebor. His orc thralls stand idle, quarreling and unfocused; now is our chance to turn the tide. We attack their rear guard, before he has time to regain mastery."

The dwarves about him nodded grimly. More were coming their way - Bofur, Gloin, Gimli and Niku. Further down the slope, some of the Lakemen heard Thorin's strong voice and turned to follow, faces pale, but set.

"What about the Wizard?" Dain's eyes were sharp. His reason had returned, at least for the moment. He looked toward the white figure before the gates with a deadly gleam in his eyes. There was a wide empty space about the White Wizard, and the orcs seemed hesitant to approach.

Thorin thought quickly. If Billa was with the Wizard, it wasn't Saruman, and Dain might not be cognizant enough to know that. But thinking about his Burglar, he knew there was no way he would be able to leave her there.

"Take three warriors, find the hobbit and get her off the field. Can I trust you with that, Cousin?"

"Aye." Dain's answer came without hesitation, which momentarily surprised Thorin. But his cousin must have understood. There was a gleam of purpose in his previously hazy gaze, and he turned, quickly indicating three of his guards, brawny fists tightening around the haft of his ax.

Thorin swallowed. Entrusting his burglar - who had only just escaped death - to a dwarf who'd once intended to take her life... it was difficult. Even if Dain hadn't known himself at the time.

But this was bigger than them all; he could not place his own kin above his duties, or exercise all cautions he desired.

"Move out," he ordered, breaking into a heavy, clanking jog. His sword was one he'd retrieved from amongst the fallen, dwarven make, he guessed, and from the golden age of Thror. It felt better in his hand than the ax he'd previously been given, lain across his chest when he was arranged in his funerary pose on the bier. The growing force at his back quickly formed passable ranks, charging down the steep, rocky terrain almost as though they weren't a ragtag force only lately banded together. They'd have to be enough. Mad as it seemed.

He could see Dain and his small group moving along at his left, still with the larger force for the moment. He would be aware of them, but his focus was required elsewhere. Very soon, he was at the head of what looked like a small, but formidable army. 30 souls, perhaps, and all willing to follow him against impossible odds.

As they charged onto the hindmost ranks of the orcs, hamstringing the huge beasts of burden and bellowing war cries, Thorin prayed that all would be well - that his nephews would know the Mountain was safe because of his efforts. That his Burglar would forgive him for recklessly throwing his life under the iron-shod feet of their enemies. That Dain would hold to his purpose, and get Billa to safety. He didn't have time for more than that.

Forward and on, his sword rose and fell and twisted and jabbed. The red mist of bloodlust took over, and there was nothing but the fight. Nothing but the next foe. Nothing but his sword and the death-song of metal on bone.

Somehow, impossibly, his numbers held. Invigorated by the initial success, the force cut a swathe through the field of brawling and unfocused orcs, making, roughly, for the center of the divided army.

Thorin paused a moment at a gap, elbow deep in gore, and too caught up even to know whether he was unhurt. He searched in vain for the smudge of white he'd seen before; if the Wizard was here, he was not showing himself.

Dain had vanished long before with his fellows, and that was that. Despite his misgivings (and there were many), Thorin had to admit few would've been more capable of succeeding at such a task than the lately self-styled King Under the Mountain. _Hold on, Billa._

Half of him still protested it was stupid - ridiculous, even. His burglar was dead. It was all a mistake, or a lie to tempt him from his despair. Only time and sword-strokes would tell.

Over the roar of fighting orcs, it was nearly impossible to hear anything, but he thought he heard a horn blowing. A deep horn. A big horn. A dwarf horn. As his sword lifted, almost of its own accord, to parry the attack of a new foe, Thorin searched for the source of the sound. Then he saw it - the huge gates were opening.

A dwarf emerged, resplendent in clean, heavy battle armor. Behind him strode two hundred fighting dwarves, each armed with a sword and heavy shield. Thorin's orc fell with a gurgle, though the dwarf was barely aware of the stroke that had taken the creature's life. Between the gates and the orcs, there was a smudge of white.


	36. Kíli; Don't Give Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli grows suddenly ill, and Tauriel worries. Kíli has a near-death experience/hallucination concerned with an unnamed Wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an apology.
> 
> The authors have seriously considered feedback from valued readers, and have decided to revise previously posted chapters with the intent of making the story less grief-heavy and more pleasant to read. As important as it is to explore themes of death and grief in a safe environment, we hadn't before considered the effect of the whole story, and realize now that the narrative has become unbalanced toward grief and misfortune.
> 
> With this in mind, we have removed the death of the youngest Durin, and will proceed with more mindful and positive intent from that point.
> 
> Revised chapters to be posted in upcoming weeks.
> 
> Thank you for your dedication and input.

Kíli wasn't sure what to think when an elf approached and offered a small white envelope to him. It had been so long since he'd heard from anyone outside the Valley that he was beginning to think that maybe the world outside had just stopped existing. Hesitantly, he took the envelope.

"Who's it from?" he asked after a moment.

"I don't know," replied the elf with a faint smile. "I didn't read it."

Kíli found himself filled, alternately, with curiosity and dread. The news could be anything - could be word of his uncle's death. Or Billa's. Or a report of Saruman's triumph.

Instead, it was a simple note, in neat, flowing script. Gwínir had reached Mirkwood safely. Little else, save a brief report of a narrow escape. Roving bands - orcs and men - were evidently lying in wait, harrying any and all they could along the road. Saruman's bidding, no doubt.

Kíli looked up, lowering the letter, slightly confused.

"Why was this brought to me? Surely Lord Elrond would more appropriate."

His answer was an eloquent shrug. "The messenger specified that it was for you and your companion." The elf made a gesture at dwarf height, then corrected himself. "The Lady Ori."

Hearing Ori referred to as "Lady" was still somewhat amusing to Kíli. He looked down at the letter to hide a smile, and noticed a rougher scrap of paper on the floor near his feet. He picked it up and unfolded it - a note from Dori, written in hasty, spiky runes. He and the group from Ered Luin, who had passed by Rivendell without stopping, were well on their way, and would arrive at Erebor before the snows set in. He had included a warning to Ori not to worry about them. The rest was more of the same. Orcs and men, brigands and thieves, a caravan of Men rescued along the way.

Kíli folded the note once more, tucking it into Gwínir's envelope.

"Thank-you." He gave a quick bow, bobbing the letter indicatively. A strange feeling of dread settled within him, odd considering the neutrality of the news. It was a peculiar pinching feeling he couldn't shake, like the barest hint of actual physical pain.

"You'll excuse me," he said, stepping away. Tauriel would be glad of the news, at least. And Ori would certainly cherish the note from her brother.

Thoughts of a hot bath and a lie-down momentarily distracted him, and he questioned the impulse. If he was anxious, stewing alone with his fears was the last thing he'd resort to.

Tauriel was where he'd left her, sitting cross-legged on the lawn near the guest chambers, her back against a spreading oak. Cradled in her arms, their tiny boy slept soundly, curling and uncurling his chubby little fingers. Small yellow-white bubbles gurgled from one side of his mouth, a testament to a recent, and evidently very satisfying meal. Ori sat nearby, cradling the other sleeping infant and reading. Both looked up at Kíli's approach, though only Tauriel seemed to immediately sense he'd had news.

The dwarf dutifully relayed it, voice hushed so as not to wake the babes. Discussion afterward was subdued for the same reason. Ori read Dori's letter and blinked away tears of relief. Silence returned, and Kíli settled beside his wife, leaning into her side.

Contentment, for a time. Moments like this could not be tainted by the doom of armies far away and the fates of kingdoms and thrones. The kiss of the breeze rustled the leaves overhead, carrying with it the fragrance of the Valley - water and light and agelessness, soft earth, thick grass, and day-lilies. He knew he didn't deserve it; Tauriel would've said he was a fool for thinking in such terms. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her cheek. She laughed softly, turning to nuzzle him best she could without moving too much.

Ori looked up, giggling behind the letter.

"You two," she whispered, shaking her head in playful admonishment.

"You don't have to watch," teased Kíli, grinning as he put an arm around his wife, careful not to jostle their son. The phrase still held a measure of wonder for him, every time he thought it.  _ Their son. _ He looked at the infant, the soft fuzz of his hair, the peace in his face. The dwarf almost didn't notice the way his vision blurred, and rubbed his eyes to clear them. The motion didn't seem to help.

Distracted, Kíli shook his head and blinked hard. He could feel Tauriel's attention shift toward him before she spoke, her voice low and concerned.

"Are you alright?"

Kíli nodded automatically, not wanting to alarm her. "I'm fine." Perhaps he was tired, or on the cusp of some minor ailment; he'd felt something like nausea after reading the letter. A vague sense of dread, a heaviness he still couldn't explain.

Tauriel's concern was not eased. She studied his face carefully, tension pervading her previously placid features.

Kíli felt a certain sense of guilt at having been the one to dispel the happy mood, the reason her smile had all but vanished.

"It's nothing, Tauriel. Honestly." He waved a hand, forcing a cheeky grin he knew she'd never believe. It was worth a try anyway. "Just tired. A night's rest, and I'll be good as new."

"I can walk with you to the room," she offered quietly, and Kíli watched her concerned eyes blur and refocus in front of him. The more he felt of this - whatever it was - the less he liked it. The heaviness descended gradually into his gut, and he shook his head again, though whether in answer to her question or to clear his mind, he wasn't sure.

"I don't think..." He shook his head again, feeling disoriented and a little dizzy. "Okay. I guess it wouldn't hurt anything to lie down for a bit."

He saw Tauriel turn her head and assumed she was trading looks with Ori.

"Ori, can you keep an eye on the twins for a minute? I'll be back once Kíli's settled."

The dwarrowdam agreed, carefully taking the sleeping infant from his mother.

Kíli climbed the small flight of steps with difficulty, disoriented and weak. This didn't make sense. He'd been fine a scant half-hour before.

Tauriel, evidently sensing his suddenly fragile state, took his shoulder supportively.

"Almost there, my love. I'll prepare a bath for you."

Kíli nodded mutely, struggling to hide just how difficult it currently was to keep his balance. His head felt hot, but his fingers were cold and pale. He squinted at them hard, but it was too difficult now to bring them into focus.

"T- Tauriel," he said softly, bracing himself in the doorway of their room. "I don't... I think maybe I'll just rest." He wanted a bath, but had a suspicion he wouldn't be able to stay awake for it. Or upright, if his head continued to spin so.

These words, as he knew they must, seemed to worry her all the more. Kíli saw, in the pale blur of her face, Tauriel's dark eyebrows draw together, and her gentle hands took his elbows once more, supporting him. He sensed that she might say something, but the elleth was silent as she helped him to the bed. His footing was uncertain as they crossed the open space, and if she couldn't feel his dizzy swaying then she was blinding herself to it.

"Rest, Kíli. I will go find Lord Elrond-"

"No!" Kíli sat up. Or he meant to. The room spun sickeningly around him and he felt clammy sweat break out across his face as his gut churned almost painfully. "I'll be fine, Tauri." He tried to sound convincing, but even in his own ears, the dwarf's voice sounded frighteningly weak. What was happening? Why now? And why here, in the House of Healing? It made no sense.

The look with which Tauriel fixed him was all too familiar; she would not be prevailed upon.

"This is not natural, my love." Her tone was gentle, but firm. "Lie down, or risk my extreme displeasure."

Kíli had little defense when she put it that way, and at the moment, he was liable to fall backward with or without his own consent. The elleth tucked him under the blankets, sweeping his fringe back from his forehead. Her fingers felt cool against his skin.

"You're feverish."

Kíli swallowed, working not to crease his brow, despite the pain. It no longer seemed isolated to any particular part of him. Fever and chills. Ache and nausea. His mam would've told him to bear it without complaint; dwarves were hardy, and kept on amidst what other races couldn't endure. A passing illness, that was all. He mustn't make too much of it.

"Just a night's rest, love," he murmured, shutting his eyes. "I'll be fine in the morning. You'll see."

He suspected she wouldn't believe him. When he opened his eyes again, he knew he'd been right. The light had changed. How long he had slept, he wasn't sure. Everything seemed dim, but overhead, he could see a smear of black above a pale face, and to his right, a smear of red.

He tried to speak, but his throat clenched around the words, and he coughed weakly instead. A cool hand passed over his brow, leaving a trail of dampness that felt icy against his skin.

"What is it that ails him, my lord?" Tauriel's voice, oddly distant in his ears.

"I don't know." The deeper, soothing tones of Lord Elrond. Someone pressed a cup to his lips and Kíli drank, swallowing what he could in spite of the fire in his throat.

"This is unlike anything I've encountered before." Elrond's words seemed very far away, but Kíli squinted, thinking they were only just above him. Was there something wrong with his ears, now?

"It just doesn't feel... natural." Tauriel again. "It came on so suddenly. I don't understand."

A sigh. Kíli could sense, in some distant, detached way, how the elf lord was troubled by his own powerlessness.

"He worsens rapidly, my lady. I believe... its true nature may be as you also have guessed. If so, he may be beyond our help."

The grave pronouncement didn't initially register, but when it did, Kíli felt, rather than vehement denial or disbelief, a level numbness setting in. Panic and self-preservation instincts required energy and effort he simply didn't possess. Maybe that was for the best.

"T- Tauriel," he murmured, vaguely surprised at the exertion such a simple task as speaking required.

The blurs that were his wife and Lord Elrond still refused to come into focus, much as he wished they would.

The cool hand returned, this time wrapping firmly about his hand. His sense of touch, at least, seemed unhindered. He could feel her slender fingers, still strong and sure, stroking the back of his hand from wrist to knuckles. It felt nice.

"I'm here,  _ melleth nin _ ." It might have been whatever was affecting his hearing, but Tauriel's voice sounded thick, as though with tears. He didn't think that was the case. Tauriel was strong. He had only seen her shed tears... twice? That sounded right. But maybe it was only once.

Knowing he didn't have the energy for many words, he sorted through what to say. In a way, he didn't really believe this could be the end. On the other hand, was it worth the risk to lose his chance to say goodbye?

"You worry too much." Not exactly what he'd meant to say, but it felt right.

There was a sound like a sob, quickly subdued. Poor Tauriel. She'd be left alone to care for their children. He couldn't allow that. They were still so young, so vulnerable.

He had to make it - for her, for the twins. He'd be going contrary to everything he believed if he didn't fight harder. He couldn't leave like this.

"I'll see he is made comfortable, Lady Tauriel." Elrond. Quiet. Resigned.

Kíli forced away the despair threatening to drown him. The pain was fading, for which he figured he had Elrond to thank. But the weakness... he just didn't have the strength he knew he required. It had all but vanished.

"Please... don't." That was all he could manage, for now. It meant many things, things he couldn't convey as he desperately wanted to.

_ Don't give up on me. _

He wasn't ready. He couldn't leave them. If he did, it might be the last time he ever saw them, saw her. Tauriel, his One. She who walks in starlight.

But she was an elf, and he a dwarf. Across the Great Divide, there were no guarantees. They might not be reunited in the end. This bolstered his resolve, made him half-desperate.

_ Please don't give up on me. _

A muffled voice, further away than the others, spoke from somewhere beyond Tauriel. The door, he thought. He couldn't catch the words, but he could hear Tauriel's reply, still thick with emotion.

"I'll be there in a moment, Ori." Something about the twins, maybe. Kíli thought of them, of Tauriel, and tried to fix the wild determination in his mind. He wouldn't leave them. He refused.

"Don't leave without me," she whispered in his ear, and pressed a kiss to his temple before she stood. If Elrond heard her plea, he didn't comment. Tauriel laid his hand gently on his breast, stroked it once more, then released him, moving out of his limited field of vision.

_ I'll do my best, love. _ The promise tightened in his chest, determination in spite of the weakness threatening to steal all his desire for life.

The room was very quiet, or his hearing was simply fading away. He might've been shivering, but couldn't be sure. His limbs were cold and numb, his breathing shallow. He felt Elrond shifting his pillows, tucking his blankets.

Maybe he would go soon to his library, find a cure for the malady in some long-forgotten tome. But that seemed to Kíli a desperate hope, like falling slowly and clutching at snapping roots along the way.

"If you've the will, Master Kíli, fight as long as you can. You are needed here."

Kíli didn't think he had the strength to speak. The previous effort had left him drained and weak, but he mustered enough determination to nod slightly. He understood, and he wanted Elrond to know he wasn't going to give in.

With the pain lessened, it was easy to slip back into sleep again. He woke periodically to drink, but could take no food. Tauriel was there, more often than not. Elrond's voice pierced his daze several times. When Kíli opened his eyes to complete blackness, he thought at first it must be night. But he felt a shadow pass across his face, and heard Tauriel's voice, faint in his ears.

"How do you feel?" There was hope in her tone, he thought. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he noted that it no longer felt chill against his skin. The fever, he reasoned, had broken, though the pain still lurked in every bone and joint, and he felt weaker than ever.

Kíli blinked several times, trying to clear his vision, but the darkness stayed stubbornly where it was, and he could see nothing.

He raised a hand. Reached out to her. Or at least, he meant to. The command issued, but his limbs refused to obey.

"I do not think he can see you." Elrond's voice again. Grave, but calm. Perhaps he was wary of clinging to false hope. "He may not be aware of his surroundings."

"He knows I'm here," the elleth protested. "I'm sure of it."

Kíli tried harder, ordered his hand to lift, his arm to extend. The best he could manage was a faint twitch of his fingers, which he could feel against his stomach, where his hands were folded. Tauriel must have seen the movement, for her long fingers laced between his and lifted his hand. He felt her lips press against his knuckles.

"I'm here, Kee. You're going to be alright. Your fever is gone. You'll get better soon." The words were fierce, almost angry in her determination. Kíli blinked again, trying to let her know he could hear her. His lips moved when he tried to speak, but there was no sound. He felt like a prisoner in his own body, trapped and helpless.

Tauriel squeezed his hand. Kíli wanted more than anything to return the gesture, to give her all of what life remained within his deadened limbs. But it was useless. He simply couldn't summon the strength.

"I sense his exertions, Lady Tauriel." Elrond again, concern and caution in his voice, though the words swam above Kíli, wavering as though heard from watery depths. "You must let him rest. His spirit weakens."

"I cannot leave him." Determination, though not untinged by concern. "Don't ask it of me. Please."

Whether he wanted to or not, rest was exactly what he was going to get. His internal struggles, though they hadn't shown outwardly, had exhausted him.

_ I don't want to leave you, Tauri. Don't give up on me. _

As though she sensed his thoughts, he felt his wife's hand on his brow, her breath against his cheek, sweet with something floral. Tea, maybe.

"I will stay until there is nothing to stay for. I am bound to him. This was my choice." Her voice lowered to the barest whisper, or seemed to in his ears. "It was my choice, and I wouldn't choose otherwise."

A pause, as Elrond seemed to consider.

"As you wish, Lady Tauriel. I will see the twins are looked after until...." He trailed off, probably carefully choosing his words. "Until circumstances change."

"They  _ will _ change," the elleth insisted, tone infused with fierceness: mingled anger and desperate hope. "He'll get better." Perhaps she took a different sort of meaning from the elf lord's words than he'd intended, but Kíli was finding it increasingly difficult to note such things.

The two elves spoke a bit longer, their conversation blurring together, tension-charged. Maybe Tauriel was arguing with Elrond, accusing him of giving up on her husband. Maybe Elrond was offering her an account of the situation she simply couldn't accept. In any case, the elf lord was gone soon after, and Kíli alone once more with his One.

"I know how strong you are,  _ amralime _ ." Her voice was softer now, just for him. "Fight. Stay with me. Our little ones... we all need you here."

Kíli would have given anything to give her a message, a sign, something to let her know that he understood. That he didn't want to leave them. He could feel the unyielding pull of sleep, now more than a temptation - it was a demand. His body was failing, nevermind his spirit. The simple act of breathing seemed like too much to bear.

If time passed, he was unaware of it. Lucidity came less easily as the ache in his bones defied Lord Elrond's ministrations. Not an ache, even. A burning, like fire in his marrow. Or maybe it was ice. Tauriel's voice pierced the fog of sleep and blindness. He couldn't hear her words anymore. Too faint, too far away. But he heard the rhythm and her tone, and decided she must be singing. Pity he couldn't hear it properly. She had a beautiful voice.

But even that awareness faded. All senses were stripped away. He was floating, disembodied. Engulfed in darkness and silence so complete, he could taste them. But that was a silly idea. Wherever he was, it lacked description of any kind. It was... nothing.

"Why don't you give in?" said a voice.

The clarity startled him. It wasn't muffled or muted, as the others had been. It was distinct, low and resonant. An old voice, full of power and surety. But the question held a certain curiosity, even beneath its mocking tone.

Kíli didn't answer. He wasn't sure he could, even if he wanted to.

"It is useless to cling to life," the voice went on, unhurried and leisurely. "I offer you rest, free from all cares. Do not fight it. Let go."

Free from cares? That sounded nice. He remembered sitting in the sunshine with Tauriel and the twins. He remembered the soft, warm weight of his son in his arms. He remembered Ori's laugh as he kissed his wife.

_ I have to hold on, _ he thought vaguely.  _ I have to stay. _ The unfocused feeling around him made it hard to concentrate, so instead he let his mind dwell lazily on the smell of his beloved's hair, and the feel of sunshine on his skin.

The voice chuckled darkly, and Kíli had a disconcerting idea the speaker could read, or at least sense, his thoughts.

"That memory is a lie. A deception. Like all mortal joy, it is not to last. Leave her now. She will find happiness again."

That made Kíli angry. Angry enough that he dared to speak. "Who are you?" The words sounded strange, weak and hollow compared to the strength of the other's speech.

The voice laughed again, haughtily, pleased it had gotten a reaction. "One who will have all, ere long. You needn't concern yourself. Your time is short." A brief pause. "Your line will fail. Your uncle, your brother... they will follow you." Kíli could almost see the satisfied smile on the other's face. "Your mother... has already gone."

His mother? He could see her face, the fierce light of joy in her eyes as she worked the forge. Feel the strength of her hands as she taught him the life of a dwarf. Fury filled in him like a landslide.

"You lie!" His voice sounded stronger now, but he felt the drain of effort.

"See for yourself," was his answer. "You will be reunited in a moment. Go on, prince. Go to her."

Obstinate resolve joined his fury, and he had a mental image of digging in his heels like a mule. "No," he hissed. "I'm needed here."

A scoff. "You think it's yours to decide? Fool. Durin's blood ever was stubborn and prone to folly."

The words struck like arrows thudding into a bale of hay. Stubborn. Folly. Kíli fought harder, straining back toward the distant memory of light and warmth. He thought he heard a muffled cry from somewhere far above.

"Tauriel!" He couldn't be sure it was her. It was too far away. But he had to get back to her. "I'm coming!"

"Give in, fool. Your life gives way, even now. A tenuous thread. Give in and lie down to rest, son of Durin." But the resonant voice was less persuasive now, less smooth. It was giving orders, and it had no right to.

Then things changed subtly. Kíli felt... something like a warm breeze. A breath of fresh mountain air. Strength returned to him like gentle sunlight warming a cold stone. As it seeped deeper into his bones, he realized his struggles had been little more than an infant's flailing in the dark. He stood firm now, and felt a hand in his own. A slender hand, a warm hand. He flexed his fingers, and felt the hand respond, lacing her fingers through his. Tauriel.

"You have no right-!" The voice in the darkness faded, and Kíli had the interesting impression that these last words had been directed, at least partially, at someone else.

Tauriel was not one to weep, and never loudly. She was strong, stable, rooted as the forest for which she was named. But Kíli recognized the sound of her tears. He felt them dropping gently onto his hand, warm and soft, each a tiny kiss. Each an expression of love he still scarcely felt he deserved.

He tried to open his eyes. Tried to banish the memory of the darkness into which he'd lately been plunged. He could sense the light now, like the barest hint of dawn breaking over the mountaintops after a long and cold night.

He was again confined in his own body, but his senses were alive once more. He could hear Tauriel's breathing, and feel her warmth, and smell the air. It was a titanic struggle to open his eyes, and eventually he succeeded. The world about him was faded, foggy and washed out, but it was there. He could see a smear of red near to his right side, and felt another tear splash against his hand.

A moment later, his eyes closed again, but not before the elleth shifted. Her grip on his hand tightened suddenly. "Kíli," she breathed, the name nearly lost in the tight anguish that throbbed through her. He could almost feel it himself.

A soft huff was all he could manage. He felt so weak. So tired. But he was alive. He had stayed. Tauriel sprang to her feet without releasing his hand, turning toward the door with a strangled noise that might have been a call for aid. He heard a flurry of movement, felt the gentle wash of murmured words, tasted sweet tea pass over his tongue, and knew no more. 


	37. Dain; Impossible Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dain does his utmost to carry Thorin's burglar to safety.
> 
> Alternate title: "Last Words"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEWARE! Character death. Hopefully, you'll forgive him.

Dain's focus was taxed, splintered and unsteady like a half-hewn tree limb, but he clung to it gamely. The movement of his axe, sweeping the head from a charging orc wasn't so much the lift and fall of a weight but like an extension of his arm.

Get to the hobbit. Move her to safety. Get to the hobbit. Move her to safety. Get to the hobbit.

It was an endless mantra in his head, while out loud he bellowed orders to the dwarves following him, keeping them close and tight as they cut a narrow swath through the chaos. Ahead, the gleam of white amid the sea of black and red inspired a spark of fear and searing hatred.

The Wizard.

_ Saruman. _

He would kill the Wizard and avenge his shattered mind. He would purge the Mountain of his evil, and perhaps clear his name of the betrayal that stained Thorin's every look, every word. 

The thought bolstered his resolve. The foe fell back before them, either directly through his efforts or pulled into other conflicts, and so the small force made good headway into the thickest part of the fray. The figure in white stood tall in the midst, ever visible even at the considerable distance.

Dain knew he wouldn't have much time. He could only hope to strike quickly enough that Saruman would be caught off guard. That would give them a window to grab the Hobbit and, Mahal willing, get her out.

As he clove asunder the last foe between himself and unimpeded access to the Wizard, he checked himself, his momentum grinding to a halt. White Wizard. Halfling. Wide berth. Possible magic in play.

But something wasn't right. The face. The face wasn't Saruman's.

In that delay of instants, the connection eluded him. But the guards at his back didn't falter. Dain raised a shout to stop them. It was ignored.

Axes flew, aim deadly and true. Axes pinged aside in flashes of flame, harmless as toys.

"Confounded dwarves!" roared the Wizard. "As if I didn't have enough trouble with these orcs without needing to defend myself against you as well." He was distracted, clearly, and his unexpected outburst opened the door for Dain to order his warriors back.

"It's not him," barked Dain. "This is a different Wizard." Pause. "Where's the hobbit?"

"You can't trust him, Gandalf," came a tiny but insistent voice, barely audible over the din. It seemed at the dwarves' advance, she'd ducked out of sight behind the Wizard's voluminous white robes. "It's his fault that Thorin's...." She didn't finish.

"Maybe so," said the Wizard, casting an evaluative eye upon Dain. "But at the moment, he's the least of my-."

"I've orders to get the Hobbit to safety," Dain interjected, collecting himself. "We don't have time to argue. Let me take her."

"Orders from who?" The Wizard's staff whipped out and smacked into an orc's chest as he passed, and the creature fell, gasping, at a dwarf's feet. As the dwarf beheaded the orc, Dain answered, scanning the chaos about them. The Wizard's robes were a magnet for their foes' attention.

"Thorin. He said to take the hobbit away and to safety."

"He's alive, then?" The Wizard frowned. "We haven't time just now. Explain later. Billa, go with him."

"He killed Thorin!" The hobbit's voice was shrill with fear and disbelief.

"Come," Dain barked, gesturing shortly. "We have little time." It wasn't that the dwarf didn't have an explanation, but he figured she'd simply claim he was lying, and that would delay them even more. "You have to trust me."

The hobbit's gaze was pain-filled and, Dain's mind suggested,  _ deadly _ . She looked as likely to trust him as an orc.

"Gandalf, you can't mean it.... Thorin's dead. I  _ saw _ ."

"There is no lie in him," said the Wizard firmly, "and the further you are from this place, the better. I'll find you when I can." With one hand, he grabbed Billa by the back of her jacket and gave her a push. It was clear from the expression on her face that she thought this not only wrong, but dangerous. She resisted as much as she could, and for such a small creature she seemed to be doing a good job of it.

"Thorin charged me with taking you and your child to safety, madam. I intend to do so, whether you want me to or not." He grabbed her arms, and nearly got himself smacked in the process.

_ Get the hobbit. Move her to safety. Get the hobbit. Move her to safety. _

Dain scanned the fight for the thinnest wall of foes between them and open space. The hills to his right were relatively clear, and there were only a handful of orc clusters between them and the hill. With a single order, he set his group in motion. Axe in one hand, hobbit trapped between his shield and his body, he moved swiftly along in the wake of his warriors. For a small thing, the hobbit was surprisingly heavy. He could feel her, rigidly tense under his arm, but no longer struggling as they moved away from the Wizard. 

He wasn't sure what happened next. A blow to the head, maybe. Something like light flashing in his skull, pain such that his knees weakened, threatening to crumple beneath him. Gritting his teeth, he worked to fight the sensation.

It was familiar. All too familiar.

"Saruman," a small voice beside him whispered.

Dain forced his eyes open, struggling to make his legs keep moving him forward. It was a fight, simply to stay in control of his own body. The pain in his head was fantastic, like a forge fire inside his skull. The others had noticed something was wrong as their leader fell behind. Two doubled back for him. A third fell under an orc sword. The fourth avenged him.

A dwarf on either side grasped Dain by his arms and, without hesitation, propelled him forward. They didn't seem to have noticed the old man in a grey cloak and hood, watching them from further up the slope.

In ordinary circumstances, Dain would've found this arrangement embarrassing. Maybe even laughable. He'd never before been so weak, only just able to hold his own weight (and one small hobbit.) Now, it seemed, there was no indignity unworthy of him. He had, after all, killed his own love. He deserved no better.

The hill loomed before them, and none but the occasional scattering orc stood between them now and mission's end. That was more than Dain had hoped to achieve. He'd show Thorin his trust hadn't been misplaced.

"He's behind you, you fool dwarf!" the hobbit cried, and there was a strong, sharp pain in Dain's side, like a hefty kick.

Dain gasped and, in a moment that was an eternity of horror, dropped the hobbit. He heard Billa land fair on her sturdy feet, but he couldn't wrench free of his escort fast enough to grab her again before she was left behind. Then he was free, staggering on weakened legs, he turned, ignoring the protests of his warriors - and there he was. The hobbit was staring up into his face, where malice was written as clearly as the stars in Mirrormere.

The Wizard's gaze was hot with loathing as it slid from Billa to Dain himself. Useless, his eyes seemed to say, directly into Dain's heart. Worthless. Alone.

Dain's gaze held, but only just, barely able as he was to withstand these darts that felt so close to true. He'd kill the traitor if he could, but that would mean first wresting back control of his own body, his own will. It seemed all but impossible. Pain lanced through his skull again, but his guards caught him before he could crumple, their steady hands returning some measure of his strength.

Saruman's grey hood slid backward, and the Wizard's face, no longer shadowed or obscured, seemed somehow more fierce and terrible than before, the focused malice of a master reclaiming an escaped thrall. Or punishing him. It was difficult to say which.

"Leave him be!" Billa shouted, taking a wobbly step forward. "I may be a hobbit, and a poor one at that, but I'll kill you if you so much as lay a finger on him."

There was a measure of incredulity lurking in the Wizard's glower as he studied the hobbit, the full intensity of his wrath shifting.

"I see the little rat was not so easily disposed of. Or is it more  _ serpent _ , that I must remove its head to kill it?" The Wizard's bearded mouth twitched into a cruel grin, and his arm moved beneath the cloak, dark cloth parting briefly to reveal the glint of steel.

Dís. Dís would never forgive him if he let this hobbit die in his place. Dain felt a surge of desperate strength - it wasn't enough to restore his balance, but his axe felt like an extension of his hand, effortless to lift, effortless to swing. He lunged forward, reeling like a drunk and bellowing war cries at the top of his lungs. The Wizard didn't stop, but he was distracted just enough that Dain could reach the hobbit before the falling blade did.

Metal rang against metal as Dain deflected the strike that would have killed Thorin's One. The sound was clear and cold and struck deep into the dwarf's consciousness. For a moment at least, his mind was clear. 

Saruman's apparent surprise didn't last long; in a heartbeat, it had turned again to something like amusement.

"I might have spared you. You were of some use to me. But no longer."

The implications registered quickly. Dain's eyes were clear now, in more ways than the obvious. Perhaps it was the last of Saruman's hold falling away, or the Wizard revealing all he'd previously concealed, but the fog lifted, and he remembered. Everything beside seemed to fade, muted into irrelevance; the space around them charged still with the blur of battle, but somehow, silenced.

As the two stood, gazes locked, weapons poised, Dain's heart seized with sudden, devastating grief. He realized now the full extent of the disaster he'd wrought. His people faced their end - death and enslavement - and he'd made it possible. Done nothing to stop it. The grief kindled into rage, and Dain nearly trembled with the heat of it, eyes blazing forth with passion he had not felt since he was young.

"Mahal willing, I'll live just long enough to see your works undone."

The Wizard laughed softly. "Mahal," he said mockingly, and the sword flashed upward toward Dain's face. He jerked back and deflected the blow, pushing Billa back with his body. Saruman advanced, his mocking words sharp and clear. "What has Mahal ever done for you? He cares nothing for you or your kin. You are the dross of this Age, to be skimmed off the surface and discarded."

"You lie as ever you have," Dain snarled back, fending off a series of skillful strokes, returning a few, which the Wizard parried with relative ease, smirking all the while.

Maybe he was only toying with Dain, leading him to believe he had a chance, in a bid for greater satisfaction in the dwarf's inevitable defeat. But Ironfoot wouldn't back down, wouldn't concede.

He owed every last ounce of strength, of will, of soul, to righting the wrong he had done. Dís wouldn't forgive him for any less. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of impossible blue. A hairy foot flew forward, and the Wizard stumbled, cursing. Dain knew from recent experience that the hobbit's kick was a powerful weapon. She mustn't have had any other weapons at her disposal - she didn't seem like the sort to hold back when she was angry.

Dain lunged, his axe whistling through the air. The sword came up, but not quickly enough. The resistance of flesh and bone was hardly enough to slow the weapon as Saruman's sword-hand separated from the arm that supported it.

The Wizard reeled back, a howl of pain and fury tearing from his throat. Blood spurted from the stump of his right arm, while his left produced, seemingly from nowhere, a long, white staff. How, Dain couldn't have said, even if he'd had time to consider before a force like a wave hit him full on, sending him stumbling powerfully backward against the rocky terrain.

Ignoring the dwarf for the moment, Saruman sent a cauterizing blast of flame into his own mutilated limb. If Dain had ever wondered what a burning Maia might smell like, he would wonder no longer. Ancient rot evidently had its own indescribable stench.

With a low growl of hatred, the Wizard turned on Billa. The hobbit had scurried back a space after her attack, and looked practically winded, nearly doubled over her rounded belly. Her upturned face, though, showed no more than the barest hint of fear, her eyes clear and defiant between her curls of light brown fringe.

"Little rat!" the Wizard hissed, raising the head of the staff. "You'll  _ burn _ for this. You, and your exiled king. He'll pay twice over for the trouble you've been!"

Dain sensed what was about to happen before he saw the first spark jump from the white orb at the staff's head. He knew with absolute certainty that if he let Saruman even attempt his attack, the hobbit would die. He couldn't let that happen. He would stop it. For Thorin. For Dís.

Still winded, Dain summoned his strength and heaved his axe forward, releasing at a run. He scooped the hobbit up and kept moving. Heavy for her size, but not actually heavy. A thought floated through his mind, detached from the fear and determination and adrenaline. Where were his warriors? He didn't have long to think about it.

The force that had knocked him back earlier was nothing compared to this. If fire could be heavy, that was what it would have felt like. Or maybe this was what it felt like to get hit from behind by a wave of molten iron. Burning, searing, blistering agony. Dain bellowed in pain, falling to his knees, holding the hobbit tight against his chest, shielding her. He wouldn't let Thorin's One die. Not if he could stop it. 

She slipped from his arms. He saw the boulders ahead. "Go," he wheezed. "Hide." If she responded, he didn't hear it. Only saw her disappear up the hill, into the midst of the boulders that would hide her.

"Drop the knife," Stonehelm ordered, the ruby-studded blade of his axe poised to strike. "Else I'll not hesitate to take your other hand, Wizard."

Amidst the pain and disorientation, Dain felt a small swelling of pride in his chest. For all his own deeds of valor, he knew his son was the best legacy he would leave. Still panting from his run up the hill, Dain's son move forward slightly, shielding his father. 

Saruman seemed to consider, but only for the briefest of moments. His glance strayed to the raw, scorched stump where his right hand had been, and then he sprang back. With more agility than one would have credited to a Man of his apparent age, the Wizard leapt up the hill, and at first, Thorin let him go. But Dain saw his intent and strove to master his body, struggling to his feet in spite of his weakness.

"No! The hobbit! Protect the hobbit!" Stonehelm seemed to take his meaning, his muscles tensing with new urgency as he broke into pursuit. But his way was suddenly barred. A group of swarthy men Dain hadn't noticed before had emerged from the chaotic mass of Saruman's force, easily dealing with the last of Dain's guards and moving quickly to surround the wounded dwarf and his son. Then Dain remembered. These Southrons had been paid for their services out of the Mountain's own supplies. For all the Wizard's silky talk of "allies," it hadn't occurred to him at the time he'd been buying his own doom. Dain's balance once more failed him and he sank back to the ground, strength stolen by grief.

He'd come so close to succeeding. But Thorin's One would die. And his son - his last pride in this life - would defend him to the last, and fall in the attempt.

"Drop your weapon, dwarf." The speaker was a bit taller than his fellows, and clad beneath his leather armor all in red. "The Wizard's thralls retreat, but we remain true."

"True to what, exactly? True to a man who uses orcs to force his will? True to a Wizard that destroys a kingdom for its gold?" The young dwarf's beard bristled with outrage.

"True to one who promised us revenge." The Southron glanced over his shoulder at the Wizard, who was halfway to the nearest cluster of boulders. Just as Stonehelm's fingers tightened defiantly around his axe haft, a voice rose above the din and another old man in white broke free from the last desperate stragglers below.

"Saruman!" The voice was strong and clear, and the Wizard paused on the slope above them, turning to face the newcomer with something like trepidation. His orcs were fleeing, and now Dain's allies were making their way to him. The battle had turned into a rout, and now a new foe had come to face the Wizard himself.

Dain found he could no longer keep to his knees, and allowed himself, evenly as he could, to fall onto his side. His vision of the battle, his son, and the mercenaries faded, darkening about the edges, but he would not allow himself the relief of unconsciousness. He needed to know how it would play out. He needed to know if his son might yet survive.

Gandalf skirted the group, moving with unnatural speed for one of his apparent age, muddy white robes billowing out behind him as he quickly closed the gap between himself and Saruman. The Southrons seemed distracted for the moment, perhaps confused by this new figure who'd appeared, nearly a twin to their patron. Maybe they'd not been aware of the existence of another Wizard. Or whatever Saruman might have claimed to be.

"Stay where you are, Saruman." Gandalf's voice cut again through the clamor, authoritative and clear. "You are a disgrace to your Order, and a traitor to your friends. Your powers and armies have fled you, and still you persist in this madness!"

"Madness?" Saruman's resonant voice cracked, becoming harsh and ugly against Dain's ears. "If you've come to make an end of me, Gandalf the  _ Grey _ , you can do what you please. You and those stagnant elves had been plotting my downfall for years. But you're too late. You've always been too late. I hope it haunts you."

Two white blurs, that's all they were. One moved back, but Gandalf's voice rang out again, clear and strong.

"Stop, Saruman."

The moving blur stopped. Whether he would or not, Saruman obeyed, and Dain felt his son beside him.

"Adad," he murmured. There was the tone of resigned defeat again. He knew as well as Dain himself that the burns were fatal. 

The older dwarf coughed, aware suddenly that the taste in his mouth was blood, and probably had been for some time. His teeth were rattling, which bothered him only because it made it difficult to speak.

"I did... what I could," he rasped, reaching for his son. Stonehelm removed his blood-encrusted gauntlet, squeezing his father's hand firmly.

Dain struggled on, determined. He could have wished for no greater blessing than his son's presence here. Gratitude warmed him even as his limbs seemed to stiffen and grow cold. "Seems hardly penance. For what I made."

"You did what you could," echoed Thorin, and Dain thought he could hear a sort of thickness to the words. "It's enough in my eyes."

It was enough. Over the labored beating of his own heart, Dain could hear the clear voice of Gandalf from what seemed like a far distance. "... and don't turn your eyes on the Mountain again."

Had so little time really passed?

"Cousin!" Finally. The familiar voice of Thorin Oakenshield drew closer. "Dain... no."

The older dwarf tried to clear his mouth enough to speak, pulling in another rattling breath as his son turned to regard the exhausted and bloodied newcomer. "See to your hobbit, Cousin." He smiled weakly, pleased to find it didn't feel unnatural to him. Maybe that was peace. "I... got her out. For you." 

The blurred shape of Thorin, stained red by battle, hesitated over him. "I believe you," he said quietly. "You said you tried to protect her. I believe you."

It wasn't forgiveness for Dís' death, thought Dain vaguely, closing his eyes, but he didn't deserve forgiveness. Belief was more than he could have asked for. As darkness embraced him, Dain sighed heavily, relaxing into the numbness that offered relief. He'd done all he could, and his offering, however meager, would have to be enough. He could feel more than see the presence of his son, sense more than hear the khuzdul spoken over him to bless his parting.

_ A son of Durin finds his way home, and no shame shall touch his name. Welcome him, Mahal, to wait with his kin. _


	38. Thorin; Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Billa are (briefly) reunited, and an Old Acquaintance reappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, and I think it might be one of the ones we end up either eliminating or rewriting later on. (Do we plan to seriously edit both Parts of this epic when we're done? Absolutely.)  
> In any case, I hope you enjoy Billa's reaction. I know I did. ;)

Thorin was no stranger to death, yet the feeling of loss never failed to drain the strength from him when he saw the light fade from a kinsman's eyes, the life leave a warrior's strong face. This, twice in a single day, wounded him deeply in a way he hadn't thought he would feel again - not after losing so many in the Battle, or before that at the gates of Moria, or before that during the first Desolation.

_ How much more must I lose? How heavy will the burden of memories be, before I can't carry them anymore? _

A young dwarf with a ruddy beard was finishing the traditional blessings for the departed, and folded Dain's hands over his blood-stained hauberk.

"Thorin!" As Gandalf's deep voice rolled out over the hill, both Thorin and the young dwarf jumped and looked about.

There was the Wizard, striding downhill with his billowing white robes trailing in the grass behind him. A second old man, also wearing white robes but seeming somehow shrunken, withered, and aged, slunk away across the slope like a beaten dog.

The Southrons seemed checked by uncertainty, gathered a ways apart from the dwarves. Clearly they cared nothing for the orcs now fleeing in droves, and with their Wizard exhibiting no plan of action (or indeed any plan at all), they were likely weighing their options.

Thorin didn't care to ask. His concerns, for the moment, were elsewhere.

"Gandalf! Is she-?"

"I entrusted her to Dain," the Wizard said, looking disconcertingly caught off guard. "Where's she gotten to now ?" Thorin's heart might have given out right then, and threatened to do precisely that. Before it could muster the strength to do so, however, a thin voice called in answer to the Wizard's question.

"I'm up here."

Thorin turned swiftly, nearly upsetting his own balance in seeking for the source of the voice. There she was, tottering unsteadily down the slope toward them, giving the Southrons a wide berth. She looked pale, and pressed a hand against her burgeoning stomach as though she were trying not to be sick. The sight of her nearly finished what his own exhaustion and grief had threatened. Within the devastating relief was also the deepest and most profound guilt. He could hardly bear to look her in the face.

It was true, then. She was alive. She had been all along. She'd been out there, lost, hurt, with child. But somehow, however impossible the vision before him, he'd again misjudged the hobbit's luck. She seemed forever destined to confound the odds.

Thorin took two steps forward and nearly staggered, half-afraid she'd vanish like a puff of smoke if he took his eyes from her. Billa picked her way down the hill, wobbly, but sure of her footing, her face twitching with something like crumbling disbelief.

Gandalf and Stonehelm looked on, the former with a familiar wondering expression. The Southrons waited, though several now looked expectantly to their leader, who stood motionless, dark gaze locked on Thorin.

As the hobbit reached the bottom of the incline, Thorin realized her expression might have been more accurately described as, well,  _ fury _ . On level ground again, the hobbit fell into a waddling gait, flying toward him, chin lowered like a butting goat.

"You!" she barked, and Thorin backpedaled a step, eyes wide. He could see he was in for it.

"What-?" Thorin's question ended with a grunt as the hobbit hit him, a miniature steam engine on large, hairy feet. They were both a little unsteady, and they both went down, Thorin curling himself protectively around the infuriated hobbit as she pummeled him.

"If you make me think you're dead one more time, just ONE MORE TIME, I swear on my mother's  _ grave _ I will KILL you!" The pummeling, which hadn't felt like much through his armor, stopped, and became a tight hug. "Don't you  _ ever _ do that to me again, you confusticating dwarf."

Thorin choked on everything he might've been trying to say, enveloping the hobbit in his arms. They remained so for a handful of moments, Billa laughing through her tears, Thorin only just maintaining his facade of composure.

"I should never have let you go," the dwarf whispered beside her ear, closing blurring eyes against a wave of searing guilt. "I've dreamt of this moment. You're not going to... leave me?"

He'd had her snatched away from him in so many nightmares, waking and sleeping, since first he'd thought her dead. This might be no different.

Billa let out a strangled, semi-hysterical laugh. He could feel her shake with it, and even through his armor, the warmth of her small body was a comfort. A balm to his grief-wounded and overburdened mind.

"Never. I'll never let you out of my sight again."

A stir nearby made Thorin aware that the world about them still existed. Reluctantly, he looked up, though he didn't release the hobbit. From the gathered Southrons, a single dark-skinned man strode forward. After a moment, he recognized the bearded face. Hakim, their one-time jailor and tormentor.

"Oakenshield," he called, stopping at a relatively decent distance, "we have unfinished business."

An unexpected surge of fear thrilled through the dwarf. Billa's grip on him tightened as she instantly recognized the implications. 

"No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "You can't. I won't let you."

Thorin's gaze returned to his One, and he sighed softly. "I would let you hold me here forever. You know that." He brushed his fingers across her tear-streaked cheek, regretting their roughness and grime. "But I have given my word. Only once have I proven false my own vow, and it will haunt me until the end. I'll not do so again, Billa."

He saw her eyes widen, and the terror in her expression threatened to break him. Death would have been easier to endure, but the idea of leaving his brave little burglar to fend for herself and their little one. The thought sent a lance of pain through his heart.

"I'm sorry, Billa." Thorin made himself release her, but she didn't move, and seemed determined to keep him pinned to the ground, though the idea of so small a creature restraining him was almost ridiculous enough to make him laugh, though he didn't feel at all amused.

"No! No, I won't let you! You can't Thorin! Don't leave me!" 

"What do you mean, Thorin?" Gandalf's voice broke in from behind, tone full of puzzlement and concern.

Prying Billa's hands from his arms was less easy than it might have been, and Thorin realized this was because she'd been employing every ounce of her strength to cling to him. The anguish and desperation in her hazel eyes, the gleaming trails streaking through the dust on her cheeks... he couldn't bear the thought that he must cause her such distress and pain so shortly after their reunion, but he had little choice.

It was the Southron's wife and child Smaug had claimed, and Hakim knew what little value Thorin placed in himself. Once refused, he would strike with everything he had, and the target would be Billa. Thorin would not put his One's life in the balance again. Certainly not to save his own.

"Hold her, Gandalf," he said quietly, throat tight with pain. "You must keep her safe this time. On the weight of our friendship, do not argue. I beg you."

But Billa had other ideas. As soon as she realized that Thorin had won the struggle, that she wouldn't be able to hold on any longer, she tore away and bolted. Gandalf let out a cry of protest, maybe her name. Thorin wasn't listening. He was breaking inside.

"BILLA!" He lurched forward. There was the other Wizard. There was Saruman. He appeared, almost out of nowhere, the flash of a knife in his hand. Billa was too close to him. She would die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Involuntarily, Thorin shut his eyes. It might have been that every one of his nerves was on edge, every bit of his will strained to the fullest, every ounce of his caring required. It might have been that after weeks of hardening himself to all feeling, as duty demanded, this moment was the final straw. But in the instant he was given, a choice was nonetheless made. He could not watch.

Sounds blurred at his ears, voices unrecognizable. How could he have prevented this? To have come so close, and then... this. To lose her twice over. All this flashed through his mind in the space of a second, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw two things.

One, that the Wizard no longer held the knife. Two, that there was a dark streak of blood blossoming out and down from the white robe a good arm's length above Billa's curly head. The dagger was now lodged in the Wizard's body, held firmly in place by the halfling's shaking hands.

Billa looked as shocked as Thorin felt, though her surprise was colored with some of the same fury she'd vented on him not long before.

"I'm not a rat," she said, and her tone was almost savage. "I'm a burglar." Then the hobbit released the knife, and Saruman tottered a step or two away before collapsing, his face turning ashen as his eyes glazed over. 

Thorin's knees nearly gave out, the combination of shock and relief overpowering.

"Billa." The name passed his lips even as he felt some return of constancy. He became aware once more of life and breath, the control of his own limbs and the strength that powered them. He must fight. That duty remained.

The hobbit lifted her eyes from the dark blood on her fingers and met his gaze across the gulf between them. Gandalf reached her, and as he steadied her she seemed to crumble, bursting into heaving, tearless sobs.

On the rocky hillside, Saruman twitched in his final throes.

Thorin heard a grunt of surprise behind him, and glanced back to see grudging admiration on the swarthy face of Hakim. "I underestimated her," he admitted, then turned his dark eyes on Thorin, his expression settling into one of determination. "Choose your weapon. We settle this now."

Thorin shuddered. He was exhausted, wounded, and burdened by grief. Hakim seemed fresh, and it looked to be an uneven match at best.

"Swords," he said, with as much calm and strength as he could muster. He had ever been more skilled with a sword than an ax, though he had naturally been trained in both. The others were beginning to catch up, and if they didn't start soon, both parties might decide to forego their leaders' appointed duel.

He found his sword, bloodied and nicked all along the length if its grooved blade, and picked it up, hiding his weariness. He could still hear Billa's sobs, interspersed with gasps and moaning his name now and again. It broke his heart to hear it, but what choice did he have? Fight now, or sacrifice her to Hakim's thirst for vengeance. He tested the blade with shaking fingers, satisfied it would serve him at least this much longer. In this match, where his advantages at the moment were decidedly few, the familiarity of the weapon was a help, however small. Hakim stood poised only three strides away, his men closing in to form a wide ring around the two.

"At your word, Oakenshield." The Southron's voice was low, his demeanor even. Blank, almost. He, too, was performing a duty. To his wife and child. For that reason, Thorin could take no solace in the notion that he was "right." But the dwarf had the will again to live, for Billa's sake at least. He wouldn't be parted from her again if his actions here had any say in the matter.

_ If she ever forgives me for this _ , he mused bleakly.

"Come, then," Thorin bid, lowering his sword point in readiness. "Let's finish this."

The first meeting of swords was cautious, probing. The second, less so. The third became a furious rush, and Thorin perceived that they both wanted this over quickly. An unpleasant task, the accomplishment of which gave no real satisfaction. Dimly, as though from a great distance, he heard the heartbroken moaning of his burglar, pierced now and again by a cry of fear. Why hadn't Gandalf taken her away? She need not see this.

But his determination was redoubled, and he pressed the attack vigorously, his wounded arm screaming in protest. This, Thorin knew, was his greatest advantage. The reason for his struggle was still alive, still needed him. Vengeance would never match that.

The duel went on, the force of blows and their turning aside a breathless blur of instinct and adrenaline. Thorin distanced himself from the world around him, from the pain of his physical body. This was life and death now, the difference between having Billa in his arms again and never again feeling her touch, seeing her smile. He forced himself on, the blades clanging harder and fiercer, screaming off each other's edges, glancing and notching.

Still, none struck home.

Seconds seemed minutes, minutes seemed hours.

Thorin was already exhausted, endurance pushed beyond the breaking point in fending off the strokes of the Southron, a tireless, never-ending rain. Now he felt his limbs betraying his will, his body slowing, his blocking and parrying only just sufficient in turning aside his opponent.

He heard Billa again, screaming desperately, though the words blurred together and were lost. It would only take one mistake, Thorin knew. One mistake, and the Southron would have him. 

There. He shifted his weight too soon, overextended a fraction. The Southron retaliated, and his parry threw Thorin's blade wide, exposing his chest for a quick counter-strike.

_ Just let it come. Just give in and let it come _ .

No. Billa needed him. Their child needed him.

_ You've done enough. You've lost enough. Let it come. Sleep _ .

He was tired, but his burglar needed him.

With a violent effort, he lashed out. It was a clumsy attempt at best, and he nearly overbalanced in the process, but he succeeded in knocking aside the blow that might have taken his life. Hakim's blade sliced through part of Thorin's shoulder. It felt like fire.

He saw the Southron's face tighten, and received the curious impression that the man had little desire to cause him further pain.

"Wait! Stop!"

Billa? No. The voice was masculine, though high with distress. Both duelists paused.The voice had been familiar. To both, Thorin judged, else it would likely have been ignored.

The dwarf's shoulder throbbed hotly, blood soaking the sleeve as he staggered back a step, keeping his eyes on the Southron. He could only ignore the injury so long if the duel continued, as it surely must.

"Who says this?" Hakim demanded, half out of breath. The Southron's men stood aside, allowing a gangly, wide-eyed figure to enter the ring.

"Don't kill him! Please, Uncle. Stop this." The newcomer was just a boy, and as Thorin finally ventured a glance at him, the connection was made. Galan, the swarthy boy who had traveled with them from the crossing at Anduin, the boy who had betrayed them to Saruman, the boy who ought to be lying still tied in Orthanc, dead of starvation. But he was there, and though he looked thin and ragged, he was very much alive.

"This is not your fight," said Hakim, and turned as though determined to ignore him, but the persistent boy threw himself between the duelists, thin chest heaving.

"He should've killed me for what I did, Uncle," Galan insisted, glancing back at Thorin. "I pledged myself to him, and... and I didn't keep my word. He spared me when others counseled him to end me outright. You can't kill him."

Hakim took a step forward, dark fury written on his face. "You interfere with my business, boy. Stand aside." He raised his sword-point to his nephew's chin, fury melting into something like pleading. "Last remaining kin you may be, but I will not turn from the deed if you force my hand."

There was a moment of silence, and the stillness between them was so absolute that the movement of the gathering crowd about them seemed like the heaving of an endless sea. Or maybe that was just Thorin's head, spinning dangerously as he lost blood and weakened.

He couldn't hear Billa's sobbing anymore, and when he looked up, he could see that Gandalf and the hobbit were both gone. It was good. She didn't need to see this.

"Uncle," said Galan softly, and lifted his chin to expose his throat. Though his hands shook, he stood fast in the face of his kinsman's anger. "I owe him my life. If I can make up for my cowardice by dying now, I will. It would be a warrior's death." After he finished his speech, Galan closed his eyes, clearly expecting to die. Thorin himself was a little surprised when the boy didn't immediately fall with Hakim's sword in his breast. 

The Southron whipped his weapon furiously to the side, burying the blade in the rocky ground. The grating of metal on stone made every dwarf smith in the audience wince.

"I concede defeat," he said formally, and indeed he looked utterly defeated. "I cannot slay the last of my kin." Galan, for all the courage he'd displayed a moment before, practically crumpled inward, chest heaving with relief and nerves.

Thorin could scarcely process this turn. How minor sometimes are the decisions that write destiny. An unworthy life spared, and his given him in return.

Lowering his chin to mask the pain now too overwhelming to ignore, he fought off a wave of nausea, letting the irreparably notched blade drop from his fingers. If there was one person he trusted to honor his word, it was Hakim. Strange as it seemed.

The Southron studied him, resignation and self-loathing in his eyes. He likely saw himself as having failed his wife and child through his own weakness. He could not avenge them as he had vowed, but unless Thorin missed his guess, his quarrel with the bringer of Smaug was now ended.

"Go your way, Oakenshield," Hakim bid him, waving a hand in lethargic command. "Your life I grant you, as the gods seem content to keep you ever from your just repayment. You have shown great honor, and so have stolen from me the fire of my hate. Go your way, and I will go mine."

Thorin was temporarily speechless. Someone approached, a dwarf he didn't immediately recognize, and started to bind his shoulder to stop the bleeding.

"You need a Healer," the dwarf muttered, and sounded worried around the Iron Hills accent. Thorin forced himself to focus. It was Dain's son, the younger Thorin.

"Where's the hobbit?" Thorin thought he sounded just a little insane, or possibly drunk. Drunk on pain, perhaps.

"Hobbit?" The young dwarf looked confused, and Thorin spoke louder, hoping someone who knew might answer.

"Where's my burglar?"

Nikû was beside him in a moment. "The Wizard took her inside. Fíli is with them."

"Fíli?" Thorin repeated, squinting unsurely into the distance. Something was becoming jumbled in his head. Indeed, his face and limbs now seemed cold and numb. A hard jolt announced he was on the ground. Voices and faces spun above him.

"Stay still, my king." The words must have been Nikû's. "You've lost too much blood."

"Fíli. Don't tell him," Thorin murmured, tensing with sudden desperation. "Keep him safe."

"Fíli is safe," Nikû assured him, and her tone was soothing. Thorin was aware of being lifted, but not by whom.

"Keep him safe," he repeated, only just remembering that he'd already said it. "I promised her."

There were voices around him, muted and distant. Pain was a veil between him and the world, which he knew was a good thing, in a way. When he had been on the brink of death before, with a spear through his belly, everything had been cold and numb. He wasn't numb now, so he was still alive.

_ I won't give up, Billa. I swear it _ .

"Take him inside," said a voice that sounded like Nikû. He hadn't told her yet that her mistress was gone. But when he tried to form the words, they were slurred and incoherent.

"It's alright, sir. Your kingdom is your own again." The words were the last he understood for a while, the pain-muted whisperings and reverential utterances concerning his disposition lost on him. He was moved, gently, onto a stretcher, and carried for a considerable distance. The ride was bumpy, each jolt painful, but Thorin managed to maintain some form of consciousness.

Hopeful as he was that he wasn't at death's door, he had no wish to tempt fate. He needed to stay awake. For Billa.


	39. Fíli; Blindsided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli, Gandalf, and Billa leave Thorin to finish his duel and go inside. The revelations waiting inside are mixed and entirely unexpected.

Fíli followed Gandalf reluctantly away from the duel. He didn't know what had put it into his uncle's head to challenge the Southron leader to mortal combat, but he was sure the reasons were good. He only hoped Thorin lived long enough to tell him what those reasons were.

In the Wizard's arms, the hobbit moaned pitifully. "He's gonna die again. I'll be alone again and Saruman will get me." Fíli doubted that, having seen Saruman's dead body with his own eyes, but the halfling was in her own little world now, and didn't respond either to Gandalf's comforting words or his own.

"What's wrong with her, Gandalf?" asked Fíli anxiously. The Wizard shook his white head and lengthened his stride, robes billowing, so Fíli had to jog to keep up.

"With time and luck, she will recover. This is just the strain of all things coming down on her. I knew she had a part to play here, but even I wouldn't have guessed it would be she to end Saruman." He shook his head again, looking down at the hobbit in wonder.

Fíli frowned, considering. "But- Gandalf.  _ You _ came back. How do we know Saruman won't do the same?"

The Wizard glanced back over his shoulder, and Billa murmured pitifully under her breath. In the old man's eyes was a mournful justice, the sadness of a life of friendship and respect ended, however rightly.

"He will not be back," Gandalf said presently. "He fell into madness, and allied with the Shadow. The Powers will not raise him. His spirit will wander, sleepless and full of hate, until the end. Unless...." The Wizard trailed off, his tone uncertain.

There was something about "unless" that Fíli didn't like at all. He shifted a little, one hand coming to rest on the hilt of one of his many knives. "Unless what?" he asked cautiously, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting the dead Wizard to get up as he watched.

Gandalf's stride slowed only fractionally, but Fíli could tell he was troubled.

"It may never come to anything," he mused, not turning his gaze from the gate ahead. "Best not to fall into needless worry, my lad."

It was meant to be reassuring, Fíli knew, but it only sent a shiver down his spine. Would he never get a straight answer out of the Wizard?

A brief pause.

"Gandalf." Billa lifted her head suddenly, voice carrying urgency. "I think... you'd better hurry." Her eyes were wide. Pain. Confusion. Fíli read many things in her face, and in the way she took a sudden vice grip on Gandalf's shoulder, which she was still looking over. Back. Back toward the duel, and the fate of her One.

"Whatever is the matter?" The tension and fear in Gandalf's voice said he already knew, but was hoping he was wrong.

But if Billa had words for her answer, she chose not to say them. Instead, she shook her head vigorously, curls bouncing. Some of the honey-brown locks stuck to her skin, as though damp, and she still looked frightened and pained. He risked a glance over his shoulder, but through the gathering audience, he could see nothing of the duel. Whatever she had seen had upset her, and in his heart he feared he knew what it was, but he could not see it now.

Gandalf's pace quickened again until he was almost running. They reached the gate swiftly, and there were already two dwarves there in dented and blood-stained armor arguing with the gatekeeper on the parapet above and trying to convince him that the King Under the Mountain was dead. With great effort, Fíli managed to outstrip Gandalf, convinced he was probably better suited to persuade them than the Wizard.

"If the King Under the Mountain is dead," he gasped breathlessly, "then I claim the throne as heir to the crown. Don't have time to waste. Let us through."

It hurt to say it, that both Dain and his Uncle might be claimed by Mahal on this day. But he'd be a fool not to keep in mind his own duties in the event things turned out so.

"Where's Stonehelm?" asked one of the guards warily, peering down at them, but the Iron Hills dwarf, seeing Fíli's face, grunted as if to dismiss the question.

"If Ironfoot and Oakenshield are both dead, the throne can be contested by either heir. This is one of them - Fíli, son of Víli, sister-son to Oakenshield. Stonehelm can fend for himself."

Reluctantly, but prompted to action by the arrival of the Wizard, the guard disappeared behind the parapet. A moment later, the great gate opened with the magnificent silence of well-made and well-oiled hinges. Fíli moved inside quickly, before they could change their minds. The Wizard followed.

It felt strange entering the Mountain again now, free and clear. It was as if nothing had happened. He had a thought his mother might be there to greet him, but when she didn't appear, he reasoned she probably had more important things to deal with at a time like this. The guards and soldiers were few, just a small reserve who had remained to defend the Mountain during Stonehelm's charge.

The entry hall was no longer done up as he had seen it upon their departure - festooned and tapestried in preparation for a coronation. It had an overall utilitarian feel to it now, grey stone and flickering lanterns glimpsed between the frowning pillars. It seemed somehow darker than he remembered.

Gandalf wasted nothing on the scenery.

"Where's the Healers' Hall? Fíli my lad, don't stand there gawking. She hasn't much time."

_ She hasn't much time _ . What was that supposed to mean? Whatever it was, it terrified Fíli. Was Billa dying? He stole a glance at the hobbit, then hurried to lead the way to the Healers' Hall. Dark, uninviting. Each hall looked just like the last. Some of the dwarves they encountered looked frightened, others suspicious, but none tried to stop them. The Healers' Hall was almost empty when they entered and called for aid.

An unfamiliar elderly dwarf and a younger, black-bearded assistant came out to meet them, and the old dwarf frowned at Gandalf.

"This is no dwarf. Why did you bring it here?"

Gandalf bristled, face darkening like a thundercloud.

"I'll have you know  _ it _ is Billa Baggins, of the Shire. Without her, you certainly wouldn't be standing here in this Mountain, un-singed by a dragon, and as such she's worth ten of you and your pompous ilk!"

Fíli realized he'd unconsciously stepped back, alerted to the Wizard's wrath by its customary signs.

"He's right," the blond chimed in, nodding in what he hoped was a conciliatory fashion. "Dwarf or no, Erebor owes her a great debt." Billa groaned quietly, an unmistakable note of pain in the noise. The old dwarf jutted his beard forward stubbornly, but the younger, black-bearded assistant stepped nearer.

"This way, sirs," he said respectfully, and bowed before turning to lead them toward a series of doors off the hall's left side.

"What do you think you're doing, Rutin?" barked the Healer. The young dwarf paused only very briefly to answer.

"You trained me to Heal the sick and injured. That's exactly what I'm going to do." And with that, he continued on his way, and held the door politely open for the three newcomers.The older healer made a great show of turning about, his stiff robe rustling in the quiet.

"Do as you will, then," he growled over his shoulder. "But don't expect you'll get far when Dain learns you're flouting the r-."

The door closed, silencing the rest of what he'd been saying.

"This room's been freshly cleared and set up for the wounded, though it's more of an operating space, I guess," Rutin offered, lantern-light flickering off a number of small cots and supply tables. "We expect they'll be bringing them in any time now, but I'll try to keep this room private as long as I can. We've two others we can fill first, as well as the space outside."

Fíli nodded gratefully, spreading a thick blanket over the nearest cot so Gandalf could gently rest the hobbit there.

The Healer seemed to notice only then that the hobbit was heavily pregnant. His eyes widened, and Fíli guessed that the number of pregnant females he'd seen in his life could still be counted on one calloused hand. Shifting the lamp to a nearer stand, the Healer passed one large hand gently over the swollen belly. The hobbit shuddered under his touch, then she began to pant softly, as though she had been holding her breath. Swiftly, he checked her limbs for injury, his hands steady and sure. Finding none, the dwarf's expression tightened and he looked up at Gandalf and Fíli seriously.

"Unless she suffers some hurt I cannot see, I think she will give birth soon."

Fíli felt his entire body go cold at the thought. His uncle ought to have been the one to receive this news. The fact that he would never know pained the young dwarf deeply. Still, he would take his uncle's place as much as he could.

"Do what you must," said Gandalf gravely, and his gaze was on the hobbit. "She and the child must both live, if at all possible." Rutin nodded gravely, something reverential in his face and bearing now. It was fitting, of course, but Fíli thought it very strange to see such a manner directed toward the Company's burglar.

"I'll fetch the supplies. You two, try to make her comfortable." The Healer turned away.

Fíli covered Billa in another blanket, moving to fill a cup from a small cask nearby.

"Th- Thorin," Billa murmured, seeming half-delirious. She took a little water, though, which granted Fíli a small sense of having helped. It was the least he could do, under the circumstances. He was so miserably out of his depth here, though he was a bit relieved to see Gandalf looked equally discombobulated.

The Healer returned quickly enough, and got to work without hesitation. His movements were tense, but smooth, and Fíli allowed himself to watch the dwarf work until Rutin caught his gaze.

"Sit here and keep her calm. We have time before the babe comes. Then you will have to leave." The Healer pointed to a stool near Billa's head, and Fíli sat obediently, taking the hobbit's hand when she reached for him.

"Thorin," she whimpered, eyes glazed. "It hurts." The blond thought it best not to remind her Thorin wasn't here, much as it grieved him.

"Y- you're going to be alright," he managed, soothingly as he could contrive. He turned his head to Gandalf, who was still standing, looking as though he deeply regretted several things.

"Can't you... do something?" the dwarf whispered. "You know, with your magic? She's been through so much; this might be the final straw." 

Gandalf hesitated visibly. "The best I could do for her now is to make her sleep, and I'm not sure it would help. I am no Healer."

Rutin glanced up sharply. "You can make the lass sleep?" he asked, one hand poised over a bowl, the other paused with a pestle between his thick fingers.

"Yes," was Gandalf’s concise answer. If he was disconcerted by the Healer's expression, he didn't show it.

Rutin glanced at the hobbit's face, then nodded. "Let her sleep. She will wake again soon enough, when time comes for her babe to meet the world, but the rest will do her good." 

Gandalf nodded, extending a bony hand to rest on the hobbit's sweat-damp forehead. It was a gesture Fíli had seen before. After the burning cliffs, when he'd brought Thorin back. Probably other times, too, but that was the instance that had stuck most in his mind.

The Wizard's eyes were closed in concentration, his lips moving soundlessly. Billa's pained movements lessened, and ceased altogether. She heaved a sigh, her body visibly relaxing.

Fíli kept firm hold of her hand, her relief becoming his. She'd need all her strength for what was to come, he reckoned. He studied the poor hobbit's face, now it was at peace, pondering all she'd been through these past few months. Dust and travel grime were recent. The stitches and slowly healing lacerations attested to a longer, more grievous journey, though he still had little knowledge of how she and Gandalf were here at all.

Ten minutes passed while the healer left the room to attend to something outside. Sitting down might have been a mistake, Fíli decided. Being still gave him time to think, to notice. Slowly, he became aware of his own stench. Battle-gore and sweat, not quite masked by the pungent scent of healing herbs. Exhaustion followed, the last ounce of life-fervor fleeing. He was bone weary, and barely able to keep his eyes open beneath the lank, grimy strands of his hair.

"How much longer, you think?" he asked no one in particular, mostly fearing he would nod off if he didn't start talking. "Will she sleep through the night?"

He wished his mam were here. Or Kíli. They'd be able to help, to shoulder some of this responsibility. If Thorin was dead... they were all he had left.

"It's hard to tell," grunted Rutin, who had apparently materialized at his elbow. Fíli jumped, then shook his head to clear it as the Healer continued. "I'm not familiar with her breed. She seems to be going pretty steady now, though. I'll let you know if anything changes." The dwarf glanced at him, and his expression softened a little. "Why don't you go get yourself a bath? There are fewer wounded than we feared, so there should still be enough hot water for one tired dwarf."

Fíli mumbled his appreciation, reluctantly tucking Billa's hand under the edge of the blanket.

"She'll be... alright?" It was one of those automatic, useless questions, Fíli thought after. As if his presence would somehow make any difference in the hobbit's condition.

The healer gave him an obligatory nod and Fíli trudged toward the door. Gandalf stopped him before he'd reached it.

"See what news you can find of your uncle. Your mother, too." The Wizard's brows, whiter and less wild than they had once been, were drawn with concern. "If Thorin has fallen, you cannot wait long to assert your claim." These words only seemed to intensify the utter exhaustion radiating from bone to muscle, from muscle to sinew, from sinew to skin. Fíli's body shuddered and bowed slightly under the weight of responsibility.

"Yes," he agreed tiredly. "Of course." With an effort, he straightened himself and moved out into the main room of the Healer's hall. There were injured dwarves here and there now, though the ones out here were those that mostly just needed rest. Those with more serious injuries were in the other rooms, he guessed. He found a guard at ease outside the door, and requested that someone show him where he might get a bath and a meal. The guard commented with a soft laugh that it looked like he could use more than that, but pointed him helpfully in the right direction, sending a servant after him when one was available. It wasn't until after he'd washed and taken a little food that Fíli mustered the courage to ask for news of his uncle.

The servant looked surprised. He had stayed with Fíli through his bath and meal, ensuring he had clean clothes and was not disturbed. "You didn't hear? Oakenshield is the new king, by order of Stonehelm, who was the heir. He was brought in not five minutes before you left the Healer's Hall and is within for treatment." He gestured back toward the Hall where Fíli had lately been.

Fíli could scarcely contain his joy and relief, standing with such suddenness he nearly upset his chair. "He's... won the duel?"

The servant shrugged uncertainly. "I heard nothing of a duel. I know only that he was wounded, but lives."

A sense of lightness pervaded the young dwarf's body, as though the heavy mantle he'd been preparing to take on had been removed from his shoulders. "I'll go see him. He needs to know about Billa."

"I would caution you from saying anything that will distress him," the servant advised. "He is very weak, as I understand it. He may try to go to her."

Fíli hesitated, but only for a fraction of a moment. Thorin needed to know he was going to be a father. With renewed strength and soaring hope, he jogged back to the Healer's Hall and asked to see his uncle. The old dwarf who had first greeted them seemed busy elsewhere, thank goodness, but the short dwarrowdam to whom he put his request looked at him with sharp, bright eyes.

"I don't think you ought to see him," she said at last. "The last thing he needs is any sort of excitement."

"Look here," Fíli protested. "This is his One. It's his  _ child _ . You can't deprive him of knowing Billa's-"

"And would you risk him knowing, but only briefly?" the 'dam cut him off. "If he gets off his bed and goes charging in there, he may undo all the progress we've made."

Fíli tried to contain himself, and succeeded with some difficulty. He felt like he might genuinely explode on the spot if he wasn't allowed to give his news to his uncle.

"How bad is it?" he asked. "How long before I can see him?"

"His wounds are serious, but if they don't get infected, or torn open again, they aren't life-threatening. When he is recovered enough to see visitors, I will make sure someone lets you know. Now, are we finished? May I return to my task?"

She reminded him powerfully of his mother, radiating duty and strength. Maybe it was for that reason he decided to ignore her. If Thorin's injuries weren't very serious, he didn't see how telling his uncle such happy news would cause any harm. 

Presently, the dwarrowdam moved off to one of the sick-rooms, pushing a cart of supplies, and Fíli was free to walk casually into Thorin's room. 

The first thing he noticed was the candles. There had to have been dozens of them, lining all four sides of the chamber upon low stone shelves. The roughly hewn walls flickered solemnly gold upon all their subtle facets. Lanterns would've made more sense, but it could well have been part of a ceremonial gesture. Fíli might've read about it once in a book.

The next thing he noticed was the bed, atop which lay the familiar form of his uncle. Other than a few tables with bandages, ointment, and suturing tools, the room was completely empty. Not so much as a guard present.

Fíli wasn't sure what to make of that, except that perhaps Thorin’s condition was very stable. He took a few tentative steps toward the bed, studying his uncle carefully. Thorin’s hair had been washed and combed, arranged so it fanned out in dark, glossy waves upon the pillow. Shorter than it had been, of course, and in its absence from his neck, Fíli could make out the white lines of a jagged scar at the base of the throat. He shivered slightly, kneeling beside the bed.

What he could see of Thorin’s body was bandaged, the shoulder tightly bound, though a dark stain was already beginning to show through the creamy white. His chest rose and fell steadily, breaths even and deep. That, in combination with the color in the face, convinced Fíli the King under the Mountain was not in immediate danger out of harm’s way.

“Thorin.” The young dwarf took his uncle’s hand, reminded of the way he’d held Billa’s but an hour before. “Uncle, it’s me. Fíli.”

It took several moments longer than Fíli thought it should, the heart beats measuring out the seconds, but Thorin's eyes fluttered open. Fíli smiled, happy to see his uncle's eyes finally clear, free of the unbearable pain he'd carried all the way from Rivendell. 

"Uncle... I've got good news for you." He kept his voice low and even, and he was rewarded with a hopeful look in Thorin's eyes. 

"Billa?" he asked, the name hardly even a breath. 

"She's... erm...." Fíli trailed off awkwardly, unsure how to phrase his joyous tidings. That left an unfortunate gap which Thorin doubtless filled in, and probably not well. Fíli could see the shift at once, the cast of fear in his uncle's face, the slight tensing of his jaw.

"No, no, it's fine," the blond said quickly, waving a hand. "Nothing like that. Billa's fine. The healer said she'll probably be having her... having the baby soon."

Thorin's expression didn't change for a long moment. Then the tension in his jaw eased a little, and his eyes clouded with something like disbelief. His lips formed the word "baby," and he shivered. He tried to sit up, but it took only a gentle touch from Fíli to keep him on the pillows. 

"She's sleeping now. I'll let you know when the babe is born. I promise."

Thorin looked unsure, and Fíli had an inkling he'd probably feel guilty now, taking his rest in full knowledge of Billa's condition. 

"If only mam were here," Fíli wished aloud. "Thought she'd have come by now. She'd know how to care for Billa properly."

Thorin remained silent, and the blond thought he might have twitched slightly. If the expression altered, it was subtle, a slight upturn of the inner corners of his brows. Of course Thorin would want his sister here; she was the only person he'd fully trust to care for his his One in this instance. 

"Strange she hasn't tried to find us yet," Fíli mused. He chuckled lightly. "I fully expected her to be waiting at the gate, giving me an earful for letting you duel that Southron. Still can't understand why you did that." 

Thorin turned his face away, his lips forming words that Fíli couldn't see enough to understand. He noticed also that his uncle's fingers twitched, like a nervous tick, making the old Iglishmek sign for "my sister." 

"Don't worry, Uncle. I'll go find Mam and she'll tell you off herself. Everything will be alright, and soon I'll have a baby cousin." He grinned, trying to help Thorin cheer up. He stood, and Thorin didn't try to sit up to follow him, but also didn't say anything, and kept his gaze averted. Fíli didn't understand it, but attributed his pinched expression to a combination of physical pain and pointless guilt over not being with his One. 

Fíli stepped to the door. "Don't worry. I'll make sure Billa's taken care of." He smiled, putting a hand to the iron door latch. "With any luck, everything will be back to normal in a week or so. The way it was always supposed to be."

Thorin looked at him and seemed to say something. It looked like 'be careful,' so Fíli smiled. "I'll be fine, Uncle. Be back when there's news." He left then, cheered by the fact that his uncle was alright enough to worry. It was a little concerning that he lacked the energy to speak properly, but he trusted that this would be remedied with some much-needed rest. For now, however, Fíli went in search of his mother. The longer she was absent, the more he was convinced that something in the Mountain was badly amiss. Nothing else would keep her away from her family. When he found a group of battle-weary, but unwounded soldiers, he asked to know the whereabouts of the queen. All of them suddenly looked somber and... grieved. Fíli felt a sudden rush of dread. 

"Where is she?" he asked, more urgently this time. "Tell me. She is my mother."

A dark-haired dwarf with a shorn beard and no braids stepped forward, head bowed. "The queen is dead," he reported in a muffled voice, grief clear in his tone, "killed by the traitor Saruman."

The words pierced Fíli like a dart. His insides were imploding. Falling, descent uncontrolled and sickening. 

"You- you're not..." He tried, unable to look at the dwarf who'd given the news lest he see again the truth he couldn't accept. "You're mistaken." It was denial, of course, but Fíli couldn't recognize it as such. "What proof do you have? Y- you've got her confused with someone else." 

He steadied himself against the nearby wall, his vision seeming to narrow and fade altogether. "Mam can't be... she just _ _ can't _ _."

The dwarf made no move, but watched with sympathy. "She was my mistress, and she lies now in the Silent Halls." 

The idea of his mother, always so vibrant and full of life, lying cold and still on a slab of stone almost broke him. Fíli felt himself beginning to sink to the floor, as though he had no control over his legs. The dwarf with the shorn beard caught him. Like a pillar of stone he was, and though Fíli tried to push him away, he didn't budge. 

It would have been humiliating under other circumstances, but Fíli found he no longer cared, tears streaming openly down his face. 

"It's not... it's not...." he repeated, words tripping on the whims of jagged breath.  _ Possible. _ Or  _ fair _ . Or  _ right _ . Any of those things might've been true. It didn't change what was. 

The unfamiliar dwarf helped him into a sitting position, back to the wall. Fíli hugged his knees, feeling quite as though he'd somehow fallen into a fake world. As though nothing he'd thought certain could be trusted anymore. 

"Y- you served her?" he managed at last, flat-toned, not looking up. "How did she... how did it happen?" 

The dwarf shook his head slowly, and Fíli sensed rather than saw the look of distress and anger on his face. 

"Her quarters were completely destroyed, like someone had used explosives. I guess the blast did it. She was near the fireplace. Iron rod through her chest. It was a quick death, by the looks of it." The words came out tight and hard. This was a dwarf whose grief would not be shown in public, save by his beard. Fíli wished he were the same. Wished he were stoic and strong. Wished he had his brother and his One here. Their grief would be no less than his own, but it would have been easier to grieve in company. 

As it was, he had only Thorin. And he wasn't going to shadow his uncle's joy with such news. 

"What's your name?" Fíli still couldn't bring himself to look up, intent as he was on worrying a small rip in the hem of his clean tunic. There were several, and his fingers were making short work of tearing the hem into several strips in that spot.

"Kuran, son of Goran," the dwarf answered, and Fíli knew by the quality of the voice that he bowed as he said it. "I served your mother the queen during her time here. But for her, many more good dwarves would have died by Saruman's designs. I deem the Mountain will not again see strength and courage like that of Dís, Thraín's daughter." 

Fíli heard a low moan, and was so focused on the work of his fingers, braiding shreds of his tunic into elaborate plaits, that he didn't realize at first that the sound had issued from his own traitorous throat. He listened with numb detachment to the throbbing, aching sound, continuous and heartbroken, which came from him. He wished to stop it, to be silent, but he couldn't. The effort to do so ended in a ragged gasp, no quieter than the sound had been. 

Kuran stood nearby, almost as though he were guarding Fíli as he grieved. The blond wasn't sure what to make of it, with what little of his attention he could dedicate to such things. 

"Prince Fíli," Kuran said at length, leaning down slightly. "I served your mother, and now I offer you my service, as she would have wished. It is the least I can do, in repayment of her courage."

Fíli looked up at this, plaits falling from his fingers. He heaved a sigh, swallowed, and managed a small nod. No words came, and he lowered his head again. Kuran would have to understand. The blond wanted little more at this point than to find a quiet, dark room and be alone. Service was all well and good, but it didn't take the edge off a loss like this.

"You should rest, my Prince," the older dwarf went on. "Others who are less touched by grief will shoulder your burdens for now."

Fíli shuddered. Burdens. Duties. He remembered, suddenly, the hobbit. His uncle's One, their burglar. She was not a responsibility he could pass on to someone else. In a moment of numbed revelation, he understood Thorin's mad drive to keep doing things all these years. Doing things was about the only way he could stay sane.

The blond struggled to his feet, focusing with all his might on returning to Billa's side and standing guard over her until his uncle was recovered enough to take his place. He would keep her safe. He would make himself useful.

Without a word, he moved down the hall, and Kuran silently followed him, bringing with him the smell of mud and blood and exhaustion. Fíli didn't stop until they reached the Healers' Hall, then turned to Kuran.

"Go wash. I will be here when you return." Without waiting to see if the dwarf would obey, Fíli went inside. 

Little had changed in the room since he'd gone. Gandalf remained seated beside the bed, holding Billa's hand. The healer - who had doubtless now been made aware of whose child she carried - sat attentively on a stone ledge near the wall, hands folded. Waiting.

For these two, little was different. For Fíli, everything was.

Gandalf looked up, reading the young dwarf's expression in a heartbeat. His face fell, eyes dimming somehow. It was an easy inference, Fíli supposed, somewhat detached. To touch him so heavily, the news would have had to mean death.

"Who?" There was a certain croaky dryness to the Wizard's voice. "Not your uncle?"

Fíli shook his head. That much was easy. No, Thorin was still alive, thank Mahal, and if he had anything to do with it, his uncle would stay that way for a long time. Gandalf's expression became drawn as he made the guess that would release Fíli from the need to say it aloud.

"Your mother, then?" The words were hardly more than a whisper. 

Fíli's throat was tight as he nodded. His insides were hard as rocks and just as heavy. If this was how Uncle Thorin felt when his parents, grandparents and brother died... Fíli wasn't sure how he'd managed to keep going at all.

But the fact that he  _ had _ meant it was possible. He'd have to be strong. He knew Kíli would take it very hard; perhaps harder than him. Better the ravens carried a brother's message to Rivendell than some unknown official's.

"How is she?" Fíli nodded toward Billa and Gandalf sighed.

"No change. She is stable, but I dare not leave her." There was a cryptic air to the words, a hint of some hidden worry Gandalf hadn't yet disclosed. Perhaps he feared yet for the little hobbit who had not long before been such a source of contention in Erebor.

Fíli looked at the hobbit, the burglar, still sleeping peacefully on the bed. At some point she had turned onto her side and now lay curled as tightly as her burgeoning belly would allow. A ball of hobbit. He imagined if it had been Ori there on the bed, resting before bringing their child into the world, and felt a queer lurch in the region of his stomach. Yes, he could understand why Thorin had never truly given up, even if he didn't understand  _ how _ .

"I will stay here. I promised I would watch over her." His voice sounded flat, even in his own ears. "If I might have paper and pen, I'll write to my brother to tell him... the news."

Gandalf nodded, a stricken tilt to his brows. "I'll see they're provided." He stood, resting a firm hand on the young dwarf's shoulder. Fíli struggled to hold together, unable to look the Wizard full in the face. The physical touch of the old man was an anchor, but also a reminder. A reminder of his longing to be held, to be comforted. To feel his mother's arms around him again. To be told everything would be alright.

He answered Gandalf's unspoken question. "I'll be fine. Just... let me be useful."

Gandalf's fingers squeezed his shoulder, and Fíli concentrated on the feeling, even after the Wizard withdrew his hand. It wasn't much longer before he had writing things, and sat on the floor beside Billa's bed to compose what he knew would be the most difficult letter of his life.

_ Kíli,  _

_ I know it's been a while. I hope you, Tauriel, and Ori are well. I dearly wish I didn't have such news, but I thought it was better you heard it from me than from someone else. _

_ Mam’s dead. Killed by Dain. I know you'll want to blame yourself, but don't. She'd say such thoughts are ridiculous, pointless, and wrong. There was nothing any of us could've done. She knew what she was doing. Probably better than any of us.  _

_ Anyway, I hope you have better news than me. I expect you to write back, whether you want to or not. Stay safe, Little Brother. Hope to see you as soon as possible. _

__ __ __ __ __ _ Fíli _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing THE END. Grief is hard, but even sad stories can have a happy ending.   
> We're nearly there, my friends. Nearly there.


	40. Dwalin; Babysitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin deals with his return to the Mountain and everything he's missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for the delay! Real life stuff got in the way rather unexpectedly (visits from family and friends, a major life change in relationships, a new housemate, and the extermination of fleas). All that aside, we're on track to post the very last chapter of BC in February (assuming we stick to the one-chapter-a-month schedule). Loki and I have finished the last chapter, and are writing an epilogue, because we can. :)

"The whole line of Durin is nothing but a pain in my hairy backside," snarled Dwalin, wishing he could outpace his brother. Unfortunately, his limp prevented any speedy movement on his part.

"We're part of the line of Durin, Brother," said Balin pointedly, and as Dwalin threw a venomous look over his shoulder, he could see his brother hiding a smile in his beard.

"In no condition..." he grumbled, stumping along the corridor. "Who's he t' say I'm in no condition? I'm the best warrior he's ever seen, and I'm  _ not _ a babysitter." He was only going because he was under orders. Behind him, he could hear Balin sigh.

Annoying as the task might be, being useful again was a welcome change, and Dwalin was quite content to forget his interlude in the elf town, wherein he'd done more moping and pacing and drinking than in all the years before combined. His brother didn't understand. He  _ needed _ to be at Thorin's side.

Grudging thanks to elven healers, his leg was less painful now. He wouldn't be parted from his charge again on its account.

Stumping into the Healers' Hall, he saw someone else was already harassing the medics, who were assembling supplies for the surgery room.

"Of course I'm qualified," the dwarf all but shouted, wiggling his fingers for emphasis. "You don't think I can change a few bandages?"

"If you haven't been trained in the Healing arts," said the old Healer stubbornly, "then you'll keep your hands away from my supplies." When the Healer saw Dwalin, he looked like he might burst into tears of frustration, though of course, no self-respecting dwarf would be caught doing any such thing. "What can I do for you?" he asked, trying to smile and instead just scowling.

"Tell me there the hobbit is and let me do my job," growled Dwalin. He glanced sidelong at the dwarf, a tailor from Ered Luin who'd served Dís. He only barely recognized the fellow.  


The healer seemed to size Dwalin up a moment, nodding. "The halfling is in there." He pointed to the door furthest to the left. "I'd suggest you don't barge in there in such a fine mood. You'll wake the new princess, and then we'll all be as unhappy as you."

He turned away, pushing a cart and muttering irritably about "squalling babies."

Dwalin paused, a little startled by this thought. He hadn't dealt with babies in a very long time, and if he'd been told Thorin's child was a girl, he'd forgotten. After a moment, he looked at Balin, and his brother gave him what was clearly an encouraging look.

"Durin's beard," muttered the warrior, limping toward the closed door behind which Billa rested, "babysitting." He opened the door carefully. There was the halfling burglar, asleep on her side, and a bundle in her arms. Dwalin could see a soft nose and a wisp of a dark curl, but that was all. Moving as quietly as he could, he moved to a stool in the corner and sat down, watching Balin pull the door closed from outside. He, too, would be on guard duty, though in a more diplomatic fashion.

"Does Thorin know?" Dwalin murmured to himself wonderingly. It was hard to imagine himself being in the same position as his friend and king. After all, he'd never been addled with love. But for Thorin's sake, he tried to consider the deep significance of the moment.

Thorin had a child. It mattered little that the mother was a halfling. Not to Dwalin. His king had made his choice, and though it flouted custom, custom was not always right.

The little figure on the bed stirred, long, auburn curls rippling along the pillow as Billa turned her face toward Dwalin. She seemed peaceful, her features largely free of trouble and care. That was more than the dwarf had expected, considering all she had endured in the months past. Hobbits truly were the most resilient of creatures. Even Dwalin had to admit it, with begrudging respect.

"Miss Baggins," he said, softly as he could manage, and offered a nod. "I'm t'watch over ye. Fer now."

The burglar made a noise in her throat, halfway between a grunt and a laugh. "Dwalin. 'Course you are. Always watching." Her voice, though soft, seemed... vague. Her eyes weren't as sharp or clear as they had been, and he wondered if the peace in her expression was due to resilience or drowsiness.

For a minute, the little room was quiet, then the bundle in Billa's arms wiggled a little, and squeaked in protest. The halfling looked down at the baby as if in surprised, then gathered her close with a sad smile. "Little Flower," she cooed softly. "Your daddy would have been so proud, if he were here." 

"Would have been?" Dwalin blinked, genuinely surprised. "Lass, ye can't mean t'say ye think Thorin's dead. No one told ye?" His gruff exterior fell away for a moment as he was forced to imagine how grieved the hobbit must have been, believing she'd been abandoned forever by her One. Believing she and her child were alone.

"Told me?" Billa looked at him. She opened her mouth a little, closed it again, and then he could see the realization dawn across her face, eyes widening. "Thorin?!"

Before he knew what was happening, the hobbit had leapt out of bed, babe clasped tight in her arms and already beginning to wail. Apparently, the princess didn't like all this sudden movement. Dwalin heaved himself to his feet as Billa lunged for the door and he watched as though in slow motion as her left leg gave under her weight and she started to fall. Dwalin grunted a warning that probably didn't have any words in it, and dove to catch her, one arm around her shoulders, the other whipping out to scoop up the screaming infant.

When all at last came to a halt, he was holding one crying baby and one unconscious hobbit. Dwalin cursed under his breath.

This was the sight that greeted Balin upon opening the door, no doubt in response to Billa's shouting.

"Durin's beard, brother! What did you do?" The old dwarf snatched away the sobbing babe, cradling her gently and shooting Dwalin an appalled look. "There, there, little one. Don't you cry."

The princess's wailing eased a little, and Balin glanced up at his brother again. "What happened? Why's she out of bed?"

Dwalin felt a combination of foolish guilt and defensiveness. After all, how was he supposed to know that she would overreact? With a grunt, he lifted the burglar properly into his arms and returned her to the bed before he answered.

"She was talkin' like she thought Thorin was dead. Didn't seem fair to let her think like that. But then she jumped up, ran for the door, and collapsed." He checked her over briefly, and found some minor swelling along the knuckles of one small hand. It looked like she'd bashed it against something.

Balin noticed, too, clucking with concern. "Oh, don't let Thorin get wind of this, brother. You should've known better. Miss Baggins-"

"-is fool headed, as always," Dwalin cut Balin off, turning away with an annoyed snort. He'd not been told he'd have to restrain escaping hobbits. That had not been part of his job description. He sat down again, concealing a wince at fresh pain in his knees, where he'd hit the floor in his dive to catch the burglar.

Balin had the healer back in in a moment, who evaluated the poor hobbit and treated her hand.

In the midst of this process, Billa roused once more.

"Where's- where is she?" she croaked weakly, turning her head on the pillow searchingly. The light in her eyes became frantic, and she grasped the healer's sleeve firmly. "Where's she gone?"

While Dwalin, mystified, tried to work out what in the world the hobbit was talking about, he saw Balin push forward and lay the whimpering infant gently in her arms. "There she is, lass. All's well."

Billa fussed over the baby, but relaxed visibly once she was assured this really was her own little daughter.

"I take it back," muttered Dwalin, shaking his head. "She's even more addled than she was before."

Once all was settled and Billa sedated with herbs, Balin returned to his post. Dwalin was left once more to stare at the sleeping halfling.

The hulking dwarf shifted, trying to get comfortable. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he'd have rather been keeping watch over Thorin. He hadn't seen him in a powerful long time, left behind and useless, drinking himself into oblivion in the elf town. That had pained him more than his accursed leg, but he really didn't want to think about it now. He'd think instead on the news Balin had brought, charging into his chambers in Rivendell. Wizard returned, heading for Erebor. Battle brewing. Dwalin hadn't thought it possible to sober up so quickly, even if he and Balin had still managed to miss the whole thing.

He could still recall the ride, long and painful, but purposeful. He had known only he had to reach Erebor. Thorin was in danger. Thorin needed him. Well, he didn't know that for sure. Not exactly. But he'd had a feeling.

Time passed. Dwalin didn't know how much. The halfling slept peacefully, the tiny infant rising and falling on her breaths. Despite his staunch resistance, he couldn't be completely unaffected by it. One part of him knew his duty to them wouldn't end here. He'd always be looking out for the hobbit, her child. Just as he'd always protected Thorin. They were his charges now. They were Thorin's family, and by extension, his. He'd have never verbalized such a thing, of course. But it was true. He knew, and accepted it.

Would that he could've been here to defend Thorin's sister in the same way. That was something he wasn't sure he'd ever quite come to terms with. The loss of Dís weighed heavily upon him, aching in his chest such that he almost felt personally responsible. Despite what had happened surrounding Thorin's banishment, he'd always liked her. Respected her. She'd been strong.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a soft, but confident knock at the door.

"Come in," he said gruffly, and the door opened. Dwalin blinked, straightening slightly against the stone wall. As if he'd summoned her somehow through his thoughts of her mistress, it was Dís' bodyguard. Nikû.

The dwarrowdam entered and silently closed the door behind her. Her gaze swept around the room, alert as ever for possible threats. He saw her hesitate when she saw the sleeping hobbit, but it delayed her only a second as she moved across the room to him. In a moment, Nikû was resting on her haunches beside his stool. Dwalin wasn't sure what she expected of him, but he let the silence rest between them until she was ready to speak. This female, at least, he knew would say nothing unless it was important he know.

"King sent word the child will be christened," said Nikû after a long, silent minute. Dwalin twitched slightly. It was unusual for a babe to be named so quickly. Then again, when had Thorin ever settled for 'usual'? Nikû continued after a beat or two had passed. "She's to be named Dís."

Dwalin's throat tightened painfully, the words striking him as surely as a physical blow. He nodded, pressing his hands together firmly.

"Aye."

The name would endure another generation, a living tribute to one who had risked all to save her people. It was fitting, Dwalin decided. Even if Dís might've objected.

"And Thorin- when will he come?" He made a sound that wasn't quite a scoff, a swift outgo of breath through his nose. "If he doesn't soon, it'll be all I can do t'keep her in here."

Nikû echoed the noise he'd made, though in her it sounded more like a laugh, short and hard. "He's recovering. Extreme exhaustion, mostly. Some malnutrition. Healer says it'll be another two or three days before he can stay on his feet proper." The slip in her grammar, though minor, had the Blue Mountains burr to it, and she sighed, as though noticing, and not caring to correct it. 

"Hm," said Dwalin.

They sat in silence a while, listening to the hobbit's peaceful breathing.

"I am glad the king is recovering," Nikû said finally, not looking at him, but Dwalin caught a hint of unspoken sadness. A note of  _ At least  _ your _ charge survived. _

"Yer mistress, the princess Dís... she is a great loss," he offered finally, surprising himself by nearly choking on the words. What had happened to him? At this rate, he'd go positively soft.

She nodded silently, and Dwalin was grateful she didn't look at him as he took a deep breath to steady himself. He had charges to look after. He couldn't let himself indulge in emotional displays now.

"You'll need more than one set of eyes for this lot," Nikû observed, and though she wasn't looking at him, Dwalin could tell that she was intently aware of his reactions. "King an' queen an' princess, not to mention the two princes an' their wives."

Dwalin grunted. "I can handle 'em. Always did, always will." One part confidence, one part bravado. Truth be told, he hadn't thought about how heavy a charge it would be to look out for all of them at once. For so long, his only concern had been Thorin, since he was far from his nephews or sister, and his brother dead already. During the Quest, Fíli and Kíli had looked out for each other more often than not, and then the elf had taken over guarding Kíli...

But heaven forbid all of them should be within the same walls!

There was a faint smile curving the side of Nikû's mouth that he could see. "It wasn't an offer," she said quietly. "I'll be here to help."

Dwalin considered, nodding slowly. He of all people could empathize with a bodyguard robbed of the one she'd protected for so long. Much as pride and protective instinct urged him to refuse, he knew he had little grounds. Nikû was more than qualified, and had earned his respect throughout their travels.

"Good, then," he said tersely, then shrugged, as if it little concerned him. "Hope ye know what yer in for."

Nikû made the quiet snort/huff laugh sound again, and this time her posture seemed to relax a little. Dwalin wondered, somewhat belatedly, if she had guarded Dís and the boys at the same time while he was following Thorin from forge to forge, one nondescript human town to the next.

Nevermind. Dwalin returned his attention to the sleeping hobbit. The infant was beginning to stir. With a sigh he pushed himself to his feet again and limped over to the bed, lifting the tiny babe from Billa's chest and sinking down to sit on the floor beside the bed, calming the little one with a slight swaying motion he remembered watching Thorin use on Kíli when he was a newborn.

The burglar slept on, blissfully unaware.

The next three days were the same. Billa slept. The infant alternately fed, wailed, and slept. Occasionally, the burglar tried to escape. Twice, she collapsed, and the third time she wept inconsolably until the Healer came with tea to calm her nerves.

Nikû came and went, and Dwalin didn't ask where. Once, she mentioned something about "making arrangements." He didn't know what that meant, and didn't care to question her on it. She was a help, at least, sharing some of the duties of guarding the burglar and caring for the infant.

They spoke little, but there was a quiet camaraderie he came to appreciate. She didn't seem put off by it.

Healers looked in occasionally; with them came hints that Thorin was growing a bit restless, and perhaps angry at being disallowed from leaving his recovery bed. Dwalin had a suspicion he wasn't hearing the half of it. If he knew Thorin at all, the king would be half-mad to see his One by now, to personally ensure she was alright. To see his newborn child. Whoever was preventing him was likely doing so at his own peril.

Dwalin had one candidate for who might be so bold: a certain, back-from-the-dead Wizard.

On the third day since he'd taken on his new duties, Dwalin learned that it wasn't, in fact, the Wizard. At least, not entirely. He learned this when Thorin thrust the door open around midmorning, stumbling into the room like a starving man in search of food. Right behind him came a familiar blond dwarf whom Dwalin still thought too young for his beard. Fíli grabbed the back of his uncle's tunic to keep him upright.

"Billa." The name was more gasp than exclamation, and the burglar didn't stir, her face half hidden under her pillow. The babe in the crook of her arm, however, began to wiggle, kicking her little feet against the loose blanket she'd been swaddled in. She was small, to Dwalin's eyes, and unnervingly pale, but her eyes were large and bright, and very intelligent. For a baby.

Dwalin saw his king spot the infant. Thorin might have just turned to stone for all he dared to move, but the expression on his face was nothing if not priceless. Dwalin allowed himself a faint smile. This made it worth it, somehow. 

"It's alright, Uncle," Fíli said softly, nudging Thorin. "Go on. Go to them."

Dwalin saw they hadn't noticed him yet, sitting off to the side as he was. He preferred it that way. He didn't want to intrude on this moment, however much it did his heart good to see Thorin looking so. It had been far too long since he'd seen him at peace. His face no longer lined by the heaviness of care and concern. It was as if he were seeing into the past, the younger Thorin before the dragon. Before the world had hardened and embittered him.

Thorin stood beside the resting halfling now, gazing down at them both. Dwalin could see his eyes glinting in the lamplight, shining with tears.

"Go on," Fíli said again, huffing a soft laugh. "You can hold her; she won't bite."

Thorin's hand shook a little as he extended it. Dwalin could imagine all too easily, the fear that all might dissolve into nothing as soon as he touched it. The fear that this, too, was just a dream. But the infant didn't disappear as his fingers brushed against her blanket. In fact, the babe, now wiggling in earnest, grabbed her father's forefinger with both hands. She could barely wrap her tiny digits around it, she was so small, and he so large.

A shiver passed through the dwarf king. Fíli glanced around for a chair or a stool, and instead spotted Dwalin. They exchanged a brief smile, and Dwalin stood, passing the stool to Fíli, who pushed it under his uncle's rump. Thorin sat without seeming to notice he had done so. Gently, oh so gently, he lifted the babe from her mother's embrace and held her to his chest.

It wasn't long after that when the burglar started to wake, as she did every time her daughter was taken from her. It was the only sure-fire way to get her attention.

"M' I dreaming?" she mumbled, blinking sleepily up at her One.

Thorin shook his head, shifting the baby gently. "If you are, I'm having the same dream." He smiled.

Billa chuckled weakly. "I've been dreaming a lot lately. You were on the burning cliffs, and... Saruman was there. And then he was at Bag End, looking for something. I had to hide. And...." She sighed. "Oh, Thorin. Is it really you?"

Then the dwarf king moved the tiny infant to his right arm, smoothing Billa's mop of curls aside with his left and leaning down until his lips brushed the hobbit's cheek.

Billa shut her eyes, and Dwalin sensed a measure of belief. Faith that when she opened them again, her One would still be there.

Thorin spoke softly in her ear, words Dwalin didn't catch, but Billa smiled, relief spreading across her face. With it came renewed vigor and life that seemed to chase away shades of the halfling's weariness and doubt.

"Confusticating dwarf," she said, laughing through tears. "I thought that was settled. Of course I will." 

Dwalin looked away, caught between conflicting feelings of pleasure and embarrassment. This was definitely a private moment that wasn't supposed to be witnessed by others. Fíli seemed to agree, since he was studying the ceiling very closely. But at the same time, he liked being a part of this, in a way. It was a good feeling.

As two two reunited lovers spoke quietly to one another, Fíli touched Dwalin's arm, and they exited as silently as they could manage. Dwalin suspected that, even if they'd thrown flowers in the air and danced around the room buck naked, no one would have noticed. 

"It's been a pain in the backside, keeping him penned up all this time," Fíli said, once they were outside with the door shut.

Dwalin grunted knowingly. "He's not gonna want t'leave."

"Fine with me," Fíli chuckled, though Dwalin sensed a certain exhausted resignation in the laugh. His manner was all grief, but functional. It would be long before the young dwarf would be again without its hue.

Dwalin had no words to soothe that kind of loss. He doubted any words in the world would ever do so. But he laid a heavy hand on Fíli's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. He was a good lad, and Dwalin knew he would do everything he could for his family. The blond looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but neither of them said anything. It wasn't a moment for words.

Just as Dwalin pulled away, thinking he might fetch a drink to pass the time, he saw a figure by the door. It was Nikû, and she was working at a lump of clay, kneading it between her wide, strong hands. He'd learned it was a sign of restlessness in her, and decided then that there was something - had to be something - he could do to help.

"You keep an eye on those two for a while?" he asked Fíli, inclining his head toward the closed door. The blond nodded.

"You'll come spell me in an hour or two?"

Dwalin grunted an acknowledgement. Limping away, he decided a drink was a good idea, so long as it wasn't any of that frou-frou elf wine. He'd had enough of that for a lifetime.

"Join me for a pint?" He noticed that, even as he made the offer, Nikû's gaze slid away from him. Curious.

She nodded and fell in beside him. 

The mess hall was quiet, the evening meal rush ended but for a few stragglers.

The torches flickered cheerily, softly glowing above new banners that festooned the walls. Deep blue, and embroidered with Thorin's personal seal in fine, silver thread. Dwalin hadn't realized how quickly things were being done. Changes were being made. The  _ rightful _ king had returned once again, and his people were glad.

Bombur was washing down the bench, looking much reduced, but hale with renewed hope. Dwalin had heard he'd nearly starved in prison, along with Oín, but had been eager to return to his original duties the moment he'd been freed. Weakness had prevented him, of course, though it seemed a couple weeks' rest and care had been enough to revive him somewhat.

"Dwalin!" the ginger cried, enveloping Dwalin in a hug, dishrag sloshing across the hulking dwarf's back. Dwalin scarcely noticed, too disturbed by the sight, by the  _ wrongness _ of it.

"Bombur." He held the poor dwarf at arm's length. "What've they been feedin' ye?"

Bombur sighed and looked sadly down at his greatly reduced stomach. He wasn't slender, by any means, but neither was he anything that could be described as "fat."

"Yes, well, it's behind me now. The wife and kids are doing better, too, now that Thorin's back. Everything is back to the way it should be, or as close as we can get." The ginger forced a grin. "What can I get for you, my friends? Anything you like!"

A few moments later, they'd been settled at a corner table, near the furthermost hearth. Two flagons of frothy ale and a basket of sliced and buttered bread sat on a wooden tray before them.

"Sorry we've slim pickings this evening," Bombur explained. "Won't be getting the shipment from the Iron Hills for another few days. We'll need it, for the feast that's coming."

Dwalin nodded thanks, lifting the ale to his lips. It was crisp, cold and dark. The fine quality hinted it had probably come from Dain's private store.

Bombur winked. "I'll leave you to it, friends. Plenty to do." He withdrew to the kitchens, humming and swinging his dishcloth happily.

Dwalin watched him leave, then sighed and took another drink of his ale. It was some minutes before anything further happened, and the rest of the quiet and the warmth and the drink was good. Nikû was the one who eventually broke the silence.

"I've got something for ya."

He looked up at her, feeling little more than mild curiosity. He saw her withdraw a tiny wooden box from her pocket, set it on the table, and slide it across to him. Interested, Dwalin used one fingertip to flip the lid open. Inside were a set of beads, wrought of a dark or possibly blackened metal.

Nonplussed, he picked up the box and emptied it into his palm. They were beads alright, and the runes carved on their curved sides glimmered silver against the black. Runes of loyalty, strength... and partnership. The weight of them felt suddenly greater, cradled in the cup of his palm.

"I wouldn't give them if I wasn't sure," she said quietly. "You're a good match to my training, my strength. And the royals need more than one guard, anyway."

Dwalin raised his brows. Now it was clear what she'd been doing in her absence from him. That, among other preparations, perhaps. He finished his ale in a long draught, still holding the beads carefully in his palm. It was an offer, and a serious one at that. He'd never thought to take on such a partnership, though the idea of it wasn't unpleasant. It made sense, all things considered. They respected each other, trusted each other. Could rely on each other. That was more than he could say for most folk. It wasn't marriage, and that was just as well, but would be just as binding as one.

With a sober look, he deposited the beads back into the box, shut the lid, and pocketed them. Then he stood.

His voice was uncharacteristically soft, his gaze downcast as he spoke. "I'll think on it, lass. You'll have yer answer in the morning."

Nikû nodded. He wondered at her silence, and concluded with a feeling of something like satisfaction that she was as uncomfortable with speeches as he was. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he started walking, pondering the offer and its implications. It wasn't marriage. If it had been a marriage proposal, he would have rejected it outright. But a partnership... it was balanced, like a well-tempered blade. Between the two of them, they could protect the royals and train new guards as needed.

This in mind, he returned to his duties. It was still something he'd have to think about, though he already knew what his answer would be. Maybe he was just hoping he'd have time to talk himself out of it. Change was only feared by those who didn't have the courage to face it.


	41. Thorin; New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument, an agreement, and a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay. Both Loki and I have been unreasonably busy. To make up for the wait, I'll give you two chapters. Special deal, today only!

Time was a hazy, insubstantial thing. Days were measured by the rhythm of meals and rounds of paperwork. He was king, after all, and there were orders to issue, missives to send, aid to call for - not to mention a feast to prepare. Supplies from the Iron Hills arrived at some point, and the mood inside the Mountain brightened notably. Thorin felt it, even from his place inside the healers' halls, where he spent all his spare time. If it had been his choice, he would never leave his One at all. But with Dwalin watching over her, and Fíli popping in now and again, it was hard to argue that the work that needed done should be done by someone else.

There was an element of déjà vu to his tasks. He'd done many of them before, of course. Months and months before, in preparation of his rule. And yet, he felt somehow that nothing was the same. He wasn't the same king he would have been. And that was a sobering thought. He'd been grateful before for all that had been restored to his care. But he hadn't understood completely the full extent of his actions concerning the dragon, nor the other choices he had made.

The mines were re-opened, but working hours were restricted, and ample rests encouraged. Commerce was re-established with neighboring peoples, including the Woodland Realm, and peace agreements were reaffirmed. Crews were formed and sent to renovate the laborers' quarters, something that had long been postponed, and not considered a priority under Dain. Erebor was cleaned, repaired, decorated. There was much more to be done in the changing of the guard, much that would doubtless occupy the lion's share of Thorin's time until well after the Coronation.

Dís and Dain had been entombed in the days following the battle, along with the others who were casualties of a Wizard's betrayal. Word had been sent to Kíli, Fíli had mentioned, but no reply had come in return. Thorin didn't expect there would be one.

His sister's wake had been a small ceremony, as he preferred. Fíli, Dwalin, Balin, others who had known her closely. Thorin felt she would have preferred that. The words spoken over her mentioned her bravery in the service of Erebor, her dedication to her people.

Even Thorin was surprised to hear all she'd done in his absence, disguising herself and going to the mines, feeding starving workers, mitigating what she could of the damage Dain unknowingly wrought. It was encouraging, even in its sorrow, and Thorin finally understood why his sister had made such choices. Anger and confusion that had long brewed within him were finally put to rest, buried as surely as Dís herself.

It was good, too, that the comfort of this new existence didn't come solely from without. In the dark nights, when Billa whimpered in the throes of a nightmare he would never understand, or when he himself woke to the terrible certainty that all he'd fought so hard to protect had been destroyed utterly, there was little Dís. In the weeks since her birth, she had developed a head of dark, soft hair and smelled perpetually of something sweet and slightly floral. Her small weight, her soft cooing, the grip of her tiny hands - all these things anchored him to the world they were building. The world he was helping to create. A safe place for his family and his people.

But all thoughts of peace and security fled him when the Wizard returned. Gandalf had been conspicuously absent in the days following the battle, staying long enough to ensure Thorin's condition was stable and the new princess born before vanishing off once more into the blue.

Word came that he'd returned, finally, looking, as ever, frustrated and in a hurry. Thorin thought he'd never get used to this new, whiter,  _ angrier _ Gandalf.

The Wizard was already in the Healers' Hall when Thorin found him, arguing with Fíli outside Billa's door.

"Yes, I'm aware she's resting," the Wizard said curtly, flapping a hand urgently. "But this is more important than her nap! Stand aside, Fíli."

Thorin felt a surge of something very like anger. The Wizard had caused more than enough trouble. It wasn't fair, he knew, to blame Gandalf (even partially) for what Saruman had done, but honestly he'd just had more than his fill of Wizards altogether. 

"If you wake her, I'll make sure you spend the winter with Thranduil instead," growled the dwarf king, stomping a little more than necessary as he approached. "She's been through more than enough without you interrupting her rest." 

Gandalf's eyes flashed. "Then you're going to tell me that the fate of all of Middle-Earth is less important than one hobbit's beauty sleep?"

"Beauty sleep?!" Thorin knew the Wizard was blinded as ever by the weight of his business, but this was going too far. "You'd better start explaining, Gandalf, or Mahal help me, I'll-"

"Don't bother with your threats, Mountain King," the Wizard said, his last two words dripping with scorn. "The last person to see the Ring was Miss Baggins, and I'm not going to stand about arguing when such things are at stake. Will you open the door, or will I be forced to blast it down?"

"The ring?" Thorin was torn between amusement and outrage. "What in the name of all things under the earth does that have to do with anything? She gave the ring to me months ago."

Gandalf's face, flushed with frustration, turned suddenly paper white. "You've had it all this time, and you didn't tell me? Do you have any idea what-"

"No," bellowed Thorin, drowning out the Wizard's accusations. "I don't know anything, because  _ you _ never explain anything!"

On the other side of the door, a baby's thin wail rose in protest of their noise.

"Well, then, perhaps I should explain something to you now," said Gandalf, more calm and precise, in the manner of one who expected to be heard out.

"Please do," Thorin obliged, lowering his tone mostly to spare his daughter the noise. "It would be the first time."

Gandalf ignored the comment, turning away from Fíli to close the gap between himself and Thorin. "That ring Billa so casually gave you is not a trinket! You have no idea what forces you set yourself against when it came into your keeping. Else why do you suppose Saruman was so determined to find it?"

Thorin shrugged, deriving some perverse enjoyment out of the Wizard's distress. "I never thought it was a trinket, Gandalf. I knew it was dangerous." The dwarf smiled with faint satisfaction. "That's why I got rid of it." 

"Got rid..." Gandalf looked like he might explode, but couldn't find the words to do so. He sputtered for a moment, and Thorin couldn't help but smirk. It was immensely gratifying to have finally,  _ finally _ caught the old man off-guard.

"What have you done?" Gandalf's voice broke, and he nearly squeaked on the last word, which was highly amusing. Fíli covered his mouth with one hand, hiding a silent grin. Thorin finally decided he'd strung the Wizard along enough for now.

"I gave it to Elrond, when I was in Rivendell and you didn't turn up. I thought it was better to leave it with him."

Gandalf's mood changed so suddenly, Thorin thought the Wizard might collapse with relief.

"Elrond has it," the old man repeated, nodding to himself. Thorin had the impression of wheels changing course behind his eyes. "Good. That's good. We have time, then. I'll send a message at once."

Fíli grinned, exchanging an amused glance with Thorin. None of them would ever be used to seeing Gandalf so flustered.

"If you're done...?" Thorin bowed slightly and waved a hand toward the door that led out of the healers' hall. "I have a daughter to see to." Inside Billa's room, Dís was still crying, though not as loudly anymore.

Gandalf scowled at him, but seemed as yet still too relieved to muster any genuine ill will. "I'll see you're repaid properly for your secrets, Thorin Oakenshield. A fine king you'll make yet."

Gandalf strode away and Thorin shook his head. As soon as the Wizard was out of hearing range, Fíli's composure dissolved into laughter. It was good, Thorin thought, as he passed his nephew and entered the room. It was good to see him smile again. It had been too long.

He shut the door behind him. Billa was sitting up now, propped up on pillows, and her brow was creased with concern. It faded quickly, though, as she unconsciously mirrored the ease in Thorin's own expression. Dís was quiet now; the hobbit had her firmly swaddled, and was rocking her gently on her shoulder.

"What was that about?" Billa's voice was stronger now, less strained. 

Thorin surprised himself by chuckling. "Gandalf."

"Yes?" Billa pressed. "And?"

Thorin tried to wipe the smile from his face. "He was getting worked up over something we already dealt with. Looked likely to faint when I told him the Ring is in Rivendell."

Almost before he'd finished speaking, Thorin knew that bringing up the Ring had been a mistake. Billa's expression tightened, and he remembered her frantic attempts to retrieve it over his injured body after the Battle. The hobbit closed her eyes and turned her face away.

"It's... safe?" Her voice wasn't tense, per se, but there was an uncomfortable quality to it that sent a lance of guilt through Thorin's gut.

He nodded, aware his hesitation would give her cause to doubt. "Safe enough. Much as it pains me to admit, the elf haven is probably the best place in Middle-earth for it to be."

Billa looked only mildly reassured, and Thorin was reminded how easily she seemed to read him. It really wasn't fair.

"Good," the hobbit said, after a pause. Dís gurgled appreciatively in the silence, and Billa chuckled. "I'll try not to think about it too much, then. It was always too important of a thing for someone like me to have." Her hazel eyes deepened. "I began to have a feeling... towards the end especially...." She trailed off, glancing away with a look like regret.

Thorin nodded knowingly, settling in a chair beside the bed. "It seems we both understand. The possessor becomes the possession, in time. That is why I wanted nothing to do with it." This, apparently, was exactly the right thing to say. Her posture relaxed, and she sighed a little.

"Thank you. For taking care of it, I mean. I don't know if I could have given it up for anyone else."

"We needn't think on it any more. Wiser and more powerful people are caring for it now."

Billa glanced at him and smiled. "You're right. There's one thing that's been bothering me, though." Thorin braced himself, hoping this would be the last he would hear of the little golden thing. Billa surprised him with her next words, though. "Why did you name our daughter without consulting me first?" 

Thorin ran a hand down the singular braid of his beard, tugging on the bead nervously. It was a habit he hadn't quite conquered since the last time he'd sported the style: when Thror reigned in Erebor.

"I am sorry about that. I was half-delirious, but that didn’t seem to matter. I expressed a desire, and those interpreting took, well,  _ liberties _ ." He had worried she would react this way, though he'd have been more concerned if she hadn't reacted at all. Billa was still watching him, and Thorin had the uncomfortable feeling that his answer wasn't good enough. 

"I understand how important family is, but I'm surprised your sister hasn't taken your head clean off for this. Woman's got the sharpest tongue I've ever seen, and she's not afraid to use it." The words were like a hot knife to Thorin's insides, not because they were ill meant. She simply didn't know.

"Billa. No one has... told you?" He could see at once the shift in her expression as it read what he projected.

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head slowly. "Not Dís. Thorin, I'm- I'm sorry. I'm  _ so _ sorry." Thorin could hear the thickness of tears in her voice, but there were no words for this. Nothing anyone could say would make it hurt less. After a moment, he shook his head.

"Life won't stop just because we lose loved ones. Our little Dís is more than enough for any dwarf." He felt her hand on his, and glanced into her face to see, with a feeling of distressed helplessness, that she was indeed crying. Quickly, he moved to sit on the bed beside her, taking the babe in his own arms so he could hold her to his side without smothering their daughter. Their daughter whimpered quietly, apparently disliking the atmosphere of grief that had descended on the room.

"How?" Billa said, after a long moment. She dabbed at her face with the edge of the blanket. "How did it happen?"

Thorin hesitated, but told her the tale with as much detail as he thought she could handle. "Dain was not himself," he explained after. "He was under Saruman's power, may indeed have been even before Erebor's reclaiming. We might never know the full extent of what it did to him."

"Well, normal dwarves can't explode," she pointed out, smiling weakly, "so that part wasn't really his fault." Thorin had to admit that was true. Dís squirmed and whimpered a little louder. Billa reclaimed her and stroked her little round face.

"Hungry, aren't you?" she murmured. "Of course you are. You're always hungry." The hobbit paused thoughtfully. "I probably should be, too." She looked expectantly at Thorin, who was too grateful for the change of subject to question it.

"I can have something sent in." He started to push himself to his feet, but Billa had one of his arms trapped between her body and the pillows, and she didn't lean forward to free him.

"Is there anything else no one has told me? Did anyone else... die?"

Thorin considered. "Our losses in the battle were few, but we felt them keenly. Our numbers were already much reduced."

"I'm trying to help out with that, love." Billa winked, gently bouncing Dís.

Thorin blushed. "We have enough supplies now," he hurried on, a little more flustered than he would have liked to admit, but deeply gratified by the amusement in Billa's grief-darkened eyes. "The plan is for a proper feast in three weeks, following the crowning and the wedding."

This time, it was Billa's turn to blush. Somehow, this was even more gratifying than her smile.

"You should get food for us," she muttered, avoiding his gaze and trying not to smile. Thorin was finally allowed to stand, and hid a smile in his beard as he turned toward the door.

"Yes, ma'am.” 

He returned some twenty minutes later, bearing a tray and a letter. A raven had found him on his way to the kitchens, still a somewhat unnerving form of communication, but probably the most secure. Generally, message-bearing birds would come to none but their intended recipients, though as the rightful King of Erebor, any raven would have surrendered its burden to him if Thorin had asked. Such was the ancient bond between ravens and the crown.

He set the tray down at the bedside and poured tea, using as much decorum as he could contrive. It had taken him some time to find leaves worthy of his very sophisticated burglar, but fortunately Dain had a stash mixed in with his fine ales.

"What's in the letter?" Billa asked, nodding at the folded parchment on the tray.

Thorin had been so distracted by the process of arguing with a young dwarf about what constituted "proper tea" that he'd not had the chance to open the letter the raven had brought to him. Setting the cup within Billa's reach, he picked up the parchment and unfolded it.

"It's from Rivendell. Looks like Ori wrote it - Kíli's handwriting isn't nearly this good."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Billa chuckled. "He'll be crushed."

"He always  _ was _ rather proud of his writing," Thorin commented, turning his attention to the letter. He read a moment, silently. Then he looked up in surprise.

"They mean to return to Erebor."

"All of them?" Billa asked. "Even-?" Her unfinished question hung in the air a moment, then Thorin nodded.

"Once the snows have melted."

Billa was still looking at him, but he could tell by her expression that she didn't see him. She was looking beyond him to the travelers he couldn't see. Thorin made to fold the letter and put it away in an inside pocket, but Billa's free hand extended, careful not to disturb the well-fed and now sleeping infant.

"We'll want to delay the wedding, then." The hobbit's words were absent-minded, so Thorin almost didn't realize what she'd said until after he'd handed her the letter.

"Delay? Why?" For a wild moment, he was afraid she'd changed her mind. Almost immediately, Thorin saw the foolishness of that thought. She wouldn't change her mind. After all they'd done and gone through... Billa interrupted his internal monologue with the answer to his question.

"I'd like for both the boys to be there, wouldn't you? And their girls, too." She was scanning the letter. "Maybe we could even combine the event, so they could be properly married, too. Dori was making such a fuss about it during the journey... seems like it might be worth it." 

Thorin privately thought this sounded very complicated, but that wasn't the source of his reservations. He didn't much like the idea of delaying the wedding yet again. Not that he gave much credence to the notion Billa might change her mind, but... he had had much time to think it over.

Being convinced he'd lost his burglar had given him ample opportunity to wallow in a sea of regrets- chief among these his failure to protect her, cherish her, bind himself to her in every way that was right and proper. Now he was possessed of a certain urgency concerning those things.

She seemed to sense his unease. "What's wrong, Thorin? Do dwarves... not do triple weddings?"

"Billa, I..." He hesitated, not wanting to spoil her obvious excitement. "I will admit it is... difficult for me to postpone what I've delayed far too long already." He busied himself about folding the letter along its pre-existing creases, setting it back on the tray. "But if it would please you," he smiled softly, offering her a dish of buttered biscuits, "I can be patient."

Billa smiled and took a biscuit, making a happy noise as she bit into it. Thorin thought it might have been odd to say aloud, but he enjoyed watching his hobbit eat. She took such obvious pleasure in it, and it warmed him from the inside out. When she'd finished her first biscuit and was reaching for a second, she met his gaze, and seemed to remember they had been in the middle of a conversation.

"I don't see why we can't marry privately before they get here, and just delay the big ceremony until after they arrive. It would be like eloping, only without actually going anywhere." Billa hesitated thoughtfully, tapping the biscuit against her lips. "I'm not sure whether my mother would laugh or scold me, if she knew." 

"Mine would have done both, probably," Thorin mused. "But if you don't mind the idea," he settled into the chair beside her again, "a private ceremony would make me very happy."

He imagined only close friends and kin would be present, and the affair would be relatively brief. It was what he would have preferred anyway, except that the more official ceremony would accomplish a different aspect of what he intended: Billa would be formally acknowledged as his One, his status conferred upon her, her deeds of courage and valor honored before all of Erebor. No more of this lurking in the shadows as if he were embarrassed of her. He wasn't. He wanted everyone to know.

It was, after all, the point upon which he had previously sacrificed the throne.

Billa made a noise (her mouth was full of biscuit again) between a hum and a hiccup, and nuzzled against his arm before she settled into her pillows again. Now that the matter was decided, Thorin felt easier in his mind. It would be better still when they were finally married.

He had his kingdom.

He had his hobbit.

They had a beautiful, healthy daughter.

And his nephews would be with him again soon.

* * *

Everything was ready. Everything was... perfect. Billa was beside him, resplendent in a white gown she'd made with her own hands, after the fashion of hobbit brides. Thorin himself wore the clothes made for his crowning, which would take place in three days.

On one side, Nikû stood with Bombur, both of them smiling. On the other side, Dwalin and Fíli. All was quiet for a moment or two, even tiny Dís, who was nestled in Dwalin's arms. The one-legged warrior looked like half a lemon was stuck in his throat.

"Thank you, friends, for all you have done." Billa's voice was soft and full of peace, as was her expression. "And thank you for agreeing to witness this. It's... very important to us that the ones we love hear the promises we're about to make."

Thorin felt as though his boots had turned to stone. This was the moment he'd waited for so impatiently. Now it was here, and it made such an impression that he wasn't sure he would be able to speak. But he would. He had to. And because he had to, he would. That was the way of life.

"It is our wish," he began softly, exchanging a glance with Billa, "that the customary vows be reserved for the official ceremony. Here, my wife-to-be and I have agreed we will speak from our hearts, to make plain all which we have long known to be true."

He turned to grasp Billa's hands, his long cloak brushing the stone floor in the stillness. The hobbit looked radiant, her hazel eyes aglow as she studied his face. Her bountiful curls had been carefully arranged and pinned, two longer sections braided before her pointed ears. His own dark braids were bare of beads, and rested solemnly upon his shoulders. Fíli would safeguard both sets of their marriage beads until the appropriate time.

"In accordance with custom," Thorin went on, "three strikes of the anvil will mark the beginning and end of our words to each other. As in the forge, so in all life."

The familiar phrase was a signal to Balin, who in one hand held a small jewelry anvil cast in mithril silver, and in the other, a tiny silver hammer.

Balin lifted the anvil so all could see, and struck it so the pure, bell-like note could be heard by all. The effect was enchanting, but was almost immediately ruined by the squeaky wail of the baby. Thorin turned quickly to look at Dwalin, who wore an expression of horror. In his arms, the infant squirmed, her face screwed up with discomfort as she squalled unhappily.

A small white figure brushed past him and Thorin realized it was Billa. She took the baby from Dwalin before Thorin could think of any way to protest - if there was a way to do so at all. 

"She's frightened, that's all," Billa explained, bouncing the infant gently in his arms. "Go on. Finish ringing, Balin." She winked at the old dwarf, then turned back to Thorin. "Cover her ears, love."

Thorin obliged, trying to form something of a protective barrier about the infant's head with his interlocked hands, though it was done less than gracefully, and Billa looked like she might be holding in a laugh.

Balin struck the anvil twice more, and with a bit less gusto this time. The clear notes rung one after the other, vibrating in the air, echoing off the walls of the chamber. This time, Dís didn't cry, though she certainly didn't look happy about the unexpected noise, muted as it was by her father's strong, gentle hands upon her ears. When the sound had faded, Billa returned the baby to the mortified-looking Dwalin, who sent Thorin a glance probably meant to convey the weight of the sacrifice being made on behalf of his kin.

Thorin was (briefly) tempted to make a face right back at him, but this was hardly the occasion for face-making, no matter how appropriate. So, swallowing the desire to do something extremely immature, he took Billa's hands again and looked down into her smiling face.

"Ready?" he asked quietly. The hobbit chuckled.

"I've been ready since... oh... Laketown." She winked. Thorin felt himself blush, and hoped no one else could see.

Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he took a breath, steadying himself as he gazed down into the eyes of his One.

She surely already knew most of what he would say. But this was important, saying it before these witnesses, before Mahal himself. Their bond would be for life, their commitment never-ending. The thought had once made him nervous; now he could not have been more sure.

"Billa," he began, more loudly now, speaking so the others could hear. "I can think of no greater joy or privilege than to have you by my side, as long as life endures. More than thrones, mighty stones, or wealth beyond measure, to have earned your love and promise is my highest honor."

He squeezed her hands gently. "We have come far together, and weathered many storms. We have faced dragons and armies, betrayal and hardship. I have watched you walk into death, felt the pain of losing you such that my only thought in life was to have you in my arms again."

He remembered the feeling all too keenly, and prayed he would never have to experience it again. "And I will not forget in good times what I pledged in times of loss and sorrow. You are my One, my greatest strength, my joy." He spoke slowly, considering each line well before delivering it. He knew every word was true.

"I pledge to honor and protect, love and give faith, to speak words of truth and consider them well. Through whatever trials the world has in store, if you will have me, I will be by your side. Mahal guide and strengthen our bond, and grant we are not separated at the end of days."

He bowed, pressing his lips to the top of her curly head. Straightening once more, he smiled. "I love you, my little burglar. You have given me far more than ever I deserved, and saved me in more ways than you will ever know."

He heard a sniff. It came from behind him, and Thorin didn't turn to see who it was, though he had a good guess. Billa was pink under his gaze, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, her mouth curled into a glowing smile. He was glad his words had moved her so deeply.

"I've never been as good with words as you." Her smile, as well as her tears, were in her tone, and Thorin decided privately that they could agree to disagree on who was better with words, squeezing her hands gently. "Well, not unless they rhyme." She laughed softly, and tears trickled down her cheeks. But when she spoke, the words were steady and clear.

"Thorin, you have been everything to me. When we first met, you were the most irritating, obnoxious stick in the mud I'd ever met. I don't think I was any better. Since then... we've grown together. As burglar and king, as companions, as allies, as friends." She paused a little, and Thorin tried not to think too much about how he might have been obnoxious. "In the Shire, I would have given this to you when you asked me to marry you, but... well, there's been a lot going on since then." From a pocket in her voluminous skirt, Billa pulled a small silver hoop, which supported what looked like a spider's web. She pressed it into his hands, and he felt the fibers, strong and tight against his fingers.

"I will stay with you as long as forever, and longer. You've earned that, and more. Each knot is an expression. Of love, of loyalty, of family, of land," as she spoke, she touched specific knots in the intricate web. "You and I... we're like threads, tied together in a knot no one can undo. You are my strength, my heart, my anchor. I will be whatever you need me to be, go wherever you need me to go. I will stay with you and keep your house and bear your children for as long as you'll have me. As long as I'm able." 

Each having spoken in turn, Thorin nodded at Balin, and then sent a meaningful look at Dwalin, who grumped, but dutifully covered poor Dís' ears as his brother again made three ringing notes one after the other, seeming somehow more solemn and beautiful than they had before.

Thorin blinked at tears, then noticed Billa had produced a small handkerchief from somewhere and was offering it to him.

With a soft laugh, he accepted the kerchief and wiped his eyes. "You're prepared for everything," he murmured. Billa gave him a nudge.

"Trying to make up for running out my door without anything useful at all." 

Thorin turned to Fíli, who stepped forward with a small leather pouch, which he emptied into his hand. Out came a tiny wooden box, hinged with silver and finely detailed, and he presented it to Thorin.

The box, once opened, revealed two sets of beads, one in silver, the other gold, both worked with the tiniest of symbols all around, and beautifully polished.

Thorin had made both sets, of course, though he imagined that Billa would learn such craft and wish to fashion a set for him in her own time.

He removed a gold bead first, as well as a small tool that had lain beside them in the box. It was a tiny pin, also in gold, and would be used to fix the bead in place around the braid, though it would not be noticeable. He set the box in Billa's hands to free both his up for the task.

Billa held the box, smiling through her tears. It was the work of only a few moments to slip the beads into position and secure them, the braids being in place already. Billa lifted a hand to touch one, and when Thorin had returned the tools to the box and handed it to Fíli again, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

The blond coughed in surprise, and Thorin saw Balin blush out of the corner of his eye. In that moment, Thorin decided he didn't care. Billa was his completely, his at last, and if that wasn't worth holding onto, nothing was.


	42. Tauriel; Natural Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel and Kíli deal with conflict when Gandalf arrives in Rivendell and tells them about the Ring, and what needs to happen to it.  
> Legolas gets friend-zoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your viewing pleasure, enjoy a second chapter! Now that Loki and I are actually finished with writing this monstrosity, we're free to post at our leisure, and may be convinced to post more quickly than usual. ;)

"I can make it."

"Mm-hm."

"Don't make that face at me. I can walk just fine, Tauri." Kíli sounded exasperated, but Tauriel didn't release his arm until he was settled in the chair prepared for him. He could walk, that was true, but the dwarf's steps were still unsteady at times. Tauriel was aware she was more protective than necessary, but that was something she was willing to live with, at least for a little longer. Kíli would be enough recovered soon that she would need to let him do more on his own. She glanced into his face, and saw that he was watching her.

"I'm sorry, love. I know you can make it on your own. Forgive me." 

Kíli waved a hand at her, his exasperation giving way to something like amusement. "Honestly, Tauriel. It wasn't long ago  _ you _ were desperate to prove you weren't an invalid." His manner was joking, but Tauriel felt her cheeks warming slightly. He was right, of course. Noting the look on her face, Kíli seemed contrite.

"Aw, come here, love. I'm not upset. Just frustrated is all. I don't like to be a bother any more than you do."

"I know." She sat beside him and watched, only a few inches beyond their toes, as the snowflakes gathered on the terrace, blowing gently over the stone like white feathers. It had been cold for the past week, hard frost in the morning and icicles like glass daggers in the evening. Their quarters had been moved to a room with thicker walls. The warmth of the inner court was a blessing for the twins, who slept within, under Ori's watchful eye.

"I don't think you need my help," she confessed, still watching the snow. "It's just a feeling I can't get rid of; that if once I let you go, the darkness will take you again. I can't let it happen."

The silence deepened between them, and Tauriel glanced at her husband, expecting to see a rueful smile, or perhaps a gentle rebuke on his lips. Instead, his brow was creased, his gaze broodingly distant. It reminded her strongly of Thorin, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"I won't let it take me," he said after a space, looking at her again. "I fought hard to stay, and I'll fight harder in future if I have to." He offered a smile, but there was a reservation to it she wasn't used to; a guardedness she didn't know how to interpret. "You don't need to worry about me, Tauri."

The elleth shivered slightly, worried in spite of his reassurance. Kíli noticed.

"It's a bit chill out here," he commented, and before Tauriel could protest, he'd unclasped the fur-lined cloak from about his shoulders and flung it around hers, adjusting it so it covered her properly. Tauriel didn't want to tell him that wasn't the reason for the shiver. They'd been over that ground already, and she had no intention of retracing her steps. Not out loud. She shifted a little so he was against her side, and put her arm around him, bringing him in close to her body.

In pleasant silence, they looked out together over the valley as the snow gathered on stone, earth and tree. Overhead, the icicles hung off the eaves and reflected the diffuse grey light from the heavy clouds. Even the babble of running water was muted, the banks layered with ice.

The quiet was so deep that Tauriel's keen ears could catch the rhythm of Kíli's heart beside her, the murmur of a chant in the Hall of Fire, and the distant sound of hooves on cold gravel. This last sound caught her attention, and she lifted her head slightly, turning first this way and then that, trying to locate the sound. It was drawing nearer, and seemed to have come from the trail at the end of the valley, the secret entrance from the fords. She leapt up on soundless feet, pulling the cloak more tightly about herself. She heard Kíli stiffen behind her, no doubt startled, but she raised a hand to calm him.

"It's alright, love. I'll see who it is."

The dwarf was slower, but she sensed he was at her side a moment later, peering out over the balcony in the direction she was looking as their feet left prints in the fresh snow. Tauriel's eyes were keen, and she knew he couldn't perceive what she could at this distance. Even her gaze could only just detect the figure emerging from the stony passage, and then only because of how deeply red his horse was against the snow. The rider, however, was leading the beast, and only his movement gave him distinction from the white landscape beyond.

"The Wizard," she breathed.

"Which Wizard?" asked Kíli, his words tight with alarm.

Tauriel shook her head slightly. "I can't tell at this distance. He is robed in white and leads a red horse, of the breed used by Men in Rohan to carry heavy loads in the mountains." She looked down at her husband and saw his dark hair dusted with white, his shoulders tense.

"Let's go inside. The guard will have seen him." Sudden anxiety filled her, and she wanted to see the twins again. If the Wizard had somehow caused Kíli's illness, he might do the same to their children, and she would sooner cut out her own heart than let it happen when she might prevent it.

"We should warn Lord Elrond," Kíli said, sweeping snowflakes off his hair. Behind them, the snow continued to fall, though the cold was less once they were under the cover of the roofed porch. Tauriel had the impression her husband was deeply unsettled, as though a nightmare had gotten a footing in the waking world, and at any moment would overtake him. Except that neither of them were entirely sure they were in any actual danger, and so the panic remained subdued.

"I am certain he already knows, love," Tauriel pointed out, closing the door behind them. Warmth surrounded them like a blanket, and she began to relax outwardly almost at once. 

"What's wrong?" Ori was on her feet, sudden fear in her freckled face. "What happened?" Little Gathien was in her arms, looking very sleepy, while her brother lay sprawled on his blanket, his wide-eyed gaze drifting up to latch onto his mother.

"Nothing's happened yet." Kíli's voice was steady, but tense. "Tauriel saw a Wizard riding into the valley, so we came back here." Ori didn't look at all comfortable with the situation, but didn't stop her rocking. Gathien's eyelids fluttered. She could hear her father's voice, and might wake again if they didn't keep their conversation very quiet.

Tauriel moved toward her son like iron filings to a magnet. Birgir waved his little fists and cooed as she picked him up. Holding the babe now felt as natural as breathing. She could feel Kíli watching her. From the look on his face, he wanted to know if things would be alright, if he should be doing something, and if she was frightened. It was strange to her how much she could read at a glance. Kíli's face was so expressive. 

"Stoke up the fire, would you, love?" Tauriel glanced toward the small hearth in the corner of the room. "It's a bit chill in here." She knew how his mind worked. It would alleviate some of the tension, giving him something to do.

Kíli nodded, hanging the cloak Tauriel had dropped on a peg near the door before moving to the hearth.

"Shouldn't I go... find out who it is?" the dwarf asked, pulling back the metal grate.

"No," Tauriel replied, simply. Kíli looked oddly relieved. He tended the fire, nursing it back to a lively blaze.

"Would you put on some tea while you're at it?" Ori spoke in a low voice, trying not to wake the baby. Kíli glanced at her, and she shrugged lightly. "Might have a guest."

Tauriel glanced at Ori, but the dwarrowdam was fiddling with Gathien's blanket, and not looking at her. Yes. If it was Gandalf, then they might have a visitor, and that would be a relief. He might be able to answer some questions. But the lurking fear that it might be Saruman made that hope feel somehow fainter and less real. They had hot tea by the time a messenger came to warn them - Gandalf had come and he was in no mood to be cautious or quiet.

"I can't tell if he's delighted or angry," confessed the messenger, looking both solemn and amused at the same time, "but he said he would come see you as soon as he's taken counsel with my Lord Elrond."

Tauriel felt more than saw the relief on her husband's face. And anyway, thinking it was Saruman had been a bit ridiculous. Knowing Lord Elrond had discovered his treachery, he certainly would not have come here alone.

"Good," she said finally, glancing at Kíli as he slumped into a chair by the fire. "Tell him we're expecting him, and very eager for news." 

"Maybe he'll have news of my brother," Ori whispered hopefully. "Haven't heard from him since he left here."

"Fee didn't say anything about him in the letter," Kíli murmured, staring at his lap. Tauriel winced slightly at the mention, knowing what was truly on her husband's mind. His mother's passing. That news had been the primary contents of Fíli's letter, anyway, and Kíli had been largely unwilling to speak on the subject. Tauriel could think of nothing productive to say, so said nothing. Instead, she took a seat on the floor, leaning against Kíli's legs and communicating by her posture that she was still here for him.

Both twins were asleep by the time Gandalf arrived. Birgir dozed fitfully in his father's lap, while Tauriel tried her hand at knitting. She wasn't very good at it. They looked up when the door opened and Tauriel smiled, setting aside her borrowed knitting needles and standing to offer the Wizard a fresh cup of hot tea.

"We've been expecting you," she said softly. "Did you have news for us?"

"Much news," agreed Gandalf, and accepted the tea, sitting down in the only remaining seat while Tauriel resumed her place by Kíli's feet. "I'm glad to say some of it is even good news."

"We thought," Kíli looked up sheepishly, "you might be Saruman. Not used to the white robes yet."

Gandalf looked passingly troubled. "Saruman is dead, and for that we may be grateful. He disgraced his order, and were his designs not undone, Erebor would belong to him now, and all your kin would be lost to us. He did not foresee my return."

Kíli shook his head in wonder, and Tauriel could understand why. It was difficult to imagine the powerful, sinister figure who often haunted his dreams... was dead. "Y- you killed him?"

"No," the Wizard replied, lowering his gaze in such a way that Tauriel thought him almost mournful. Or guilty.

"Then who?" Kíli pressed. Birgir stirred on his lap, and Tauriel realized Gandalf had made no comment yet on the little ones. She wasn't sure if they were an insignificant detail, or if he was simply that focused on his own business that he hadn't noticed.

Gandalf's chin was sunk upon his chest, and he was silent for so long that Tauriel began to suspect that he wouldn't answer at all. Birgir whimpered in his sleep, prompting Kíli to pick him up and cradle him gently - that was a wonderful sight.

"It was Billa," said Gandalf at last. "And with his own knife, no less. I knew she had a role yet to play, but how could I have guessed it would be so?"

Tauriel felt something like anger rise within her, but it was... satisfied. A sense of vengeance appeased. "Good. If anyone had the right, it was she."

Gandalf looked at her curiously, but nodded slowly. "Yes, I can see how you would think that. You are young yet, and a warrior at heart."

Tauriel was silent a moment, pondering what he might mean. She supposed she ought to have been a little more sensitive, considering Gandalf's past connection with Saruman. Before the betrayal, they had been friends many hundreds of years.

"And Billa? She's alright?" Ori's small voice rose from outside the group by the fire.

Gandalf nodded. "Yes. Yes, she's alright. Better than was ever hoped, all things considered. It's clear she was meant to survive, for few could have endured what she did and come through - even if Lord Elrond's skill is partly to thank."

Tauriel shuddered slightly, remembering how Kíli had later described Billa's condition upon encountering the Elves near Rivendell. Multiple stab wounds, bruises, cuts, and evidence of earlier injuries not yet healed. Gandalf was surely right, then. The Powers had a purpose for the little hobbit, despite all harm a traitor Wizard could inflict.

"But enough on that for now." Gandalf waved a hand briskly, as if reminded suddenly of his purpose. "I've not come only as a bearer of news."

"Before you move on from the news," said Tauriel, not wishing to interrupt but eager to hear of her husband's kin, "would you let us know what's happened? What of Dain? Is Billa's little one alright? Is Fíli in good health, and so on?"

Gandalf frowned at her. "One would think you could obtain such news elsewhere," he grumbled, but acquiesced, giving the barest of updates on all involved. This one died, that one is in good health, and yes, the child has been born - a girl, he thought. Named her Dís.

Tauriel let him truncate the news, unwilling to provoke the Wizard with her children sleeping nearby. When Gandalf had finished and refilled his tea, he harrumphed at the elf. "Now, if you're quite done, we can get on with the business on which I have come.

"First, I came to deal with Billa's ring. Both of you have handled it, albeit briefly, so you know some of its power. Saruman's actions have proved to me that the ring was indeed a Ring of Power. It must be taken and destroyed."

"Hang on!" Kíli's sudden outburst woke his son, and as Birgir began to wail, so too did his sister. The dwarf was so distracted that rather than tending to the babe himself, he handed Birgir to Tauriel, his gaze fixed instead on the Wizard. "You can't really mean to ask us to go on another Valar-forsaken Quest, Gandalf. We've done our part. We have children to take care of!" He gestured unnecessarily at the crying twins.

Tauriel knew she would do it if Gandalf asked her to, but she also knew that her duty to her children was not a burden lightly abandoned. She recalled her words to Kíli, before the twins had been born, on choosing between saving his family and fighting for what was right... and shuddered. She understood now why it had wounded him so deeply.

"This venture will not be undertaken lightly," Gandalf continued, seeming largely unaffected by the infants' wailing. Leaning forward in his chair a little, he ran a hand through his white beard, smoothing it, whisking away a few drops of tea. When he spoke again, his tone and volume had changed, such that Tauriel was convinced there was an air of secrecy surrounding the operation. "All will be decided in due time, but it needn't concern you for the present, except that you now know the true nature of what Billa carried."

Tauriel and Ori managed to calm the babies while the Wizard's low voice rumbled on, hinting at things Tauriel didn't much like the sound of. "I have done much in the past few weeks, and my travels took me to Gondor. After much time spent steeped in texts long-forgotten, I am all but certain. This is the One Ring. The great weapon of Sauron himself."

Kíli sat back in his chair, shock apparent on his face. It was much to take in. Tauriel herself could now understand the effects she felt from guarding the Ring for Billa. Even as she had held it, wrapped in cloth, away from her skin, it had felt cold. 

"And... how can it be destroyed?" she asked, her voice calm despite how deeply the subject terrified her.

"By Elrond's council, for he is one of the Wise and remembers the forging of the Great Rings, this thing should be cast into the fires of Mount Orodruin in Mordor, where it was made. That fire only is now hot enough to unmake the Ring." 

A thick silence fell upon the room. Tauriel felt she might suffocate. Kíli must have seen or sensed her fear, because his warm hand caught hers and laced their fingers together, a comforting pressure, just as the restless weight of Birgir against her shoulder was a comfort. An anchor.

"I do not want this burden," she whispered, and felt Kíli's hand on her shoulder tighten.

"No," he breathed, and it pained Tauriel to finished the thought aloud, knowing how much it would hurt him.

"But if you ask it of me, Gandalf, I will do this thing. I will carry it to Mordor and cast it into the Cracks of Doom." Even speaking the name made her shudder. Birgir whimpered, and she held him fast. "It's alright, my little bear. It's alright. No shadow will touch you, my precious one. I swear it."

"Who will go has yet to be decided." Gandalf spoke evenly, but Tauriel thought she might have caught a gleam of admiration in his eyes. "We will know more when Lord Elrond has finished consulting the Lady Galadriel, which he is doing as we speak. She will doubtless offer us guidance."

Tauriel started slightly at the name. "The Lady of Lórien," she breathed, exchanging an awed look with Kíli's confused one.

"Who's that?" the dwarf asked, peering curiously at Gandalf.

"I wonder what passes for princely education these days," the Wizard scoffed good-naturedly, shaking his white head. 

"Lady Galadriel is the queen of the Galadhrim, the elven folk of Lothlorien." Tauriel spoke softly, smiling. "The Lady of the Golden Wood."

Kíli understood then, and smiled through his embarrassment. Gandalf shook his head, wagging his white beard with a smile.

"Second, I wanted to talk to you two about your children. It's been many a long age of this world since half-dwarf children graced the world, and now there are three."

Tauriel felt a certain defensiveness, though she reasoned Gandalf would never seek a course that would put her children in danger. Kíli's reaction mirrored her own. "What about them? It's not unnatural; clearly. Maybe one day, half-dwarf children will be no stranger than full-blooded ones."

Gandalf raised a hand to halt Kíli's defense. "Rest easy, my lad. I mean no harm, or to debate what is or isn't natural."

Kíli relaxed a little. "Then what  _ do _ you mean?"

"There are some among the Wise who feel it may be these half-dwarf children, all in the royal family of Erebor, who may direct the fate of dwarves in the coming age." Gandalf's eyes glimmered with a deep sort of satisfaction. Tauriel wondered briefly if the Wizard could have  _ planned _ this somehow.

"What does this mean for us, exactly?"

"It means that I recommend you return to Erebor as soon as you may. These children will have the best chance of being accepted by the dwarves if they're raised among dwarves."

"Accepted?" Kíli raised his eyebrows, glancing at Birgir. "I don't expect even that much. I figured we'd always be in shadow, a secret embarrassment. I was prepared for that, and still am. I'll never regret my choice." He sighed. "Dwarves may accept a half-hobbit, but not a half-elf. Not yet." There was apology in his tone, as though he were sorry on behalf of his entire race.

Gandalf nodded, though he seemed less certain. "Perhaps. But I suspect you misjudge your people. Not all of them are so firm in their anger toward the Elves. Take your uncle, for example. The bitterest of the lot. He has changed much from the dwarf who once saw even Lord Elrond as an enemy."

Kíli hesitated a moment, glancing at his wife, and Tauriel felt a sort of pride in the fact that they had already decided to go back, regardless. "We had planned to return. After the snows melt."

Kíli put a hand on her waist, and Tauriel felt the warmth and weight of it. It seemed intimate and yet so casual. It lit a strange, tingling warmth in her that she didn't understand, and didn't question.

A sharp knock on the door made both of them jump.

"Come in," Gandalf barked, not seeming to notice that this wasn't  _ his _ residence. Tauriel decided not to mind.

It was Lindir, an elf of some distinction in Rivendell. He looked unusually grave as he quickly let himself in and shut the door behind him. "My Lord Elrond requests your presence, Mithrandir. He has had word from the Lady."

"What is the verdict?" the Wizard asked, not moving to get up.

Lindir glanced about the room, seeming to assess its other occupants. Evidently deciding all were trustworthy, he nodded, lowering his voice slightly. "She bids him waste no time. The Weapon of the Enemy must leave Rivendell before the week is out. Saruman's treachery leads her to believe... he may have already been in league with Sauron. Even as he feigned to assist in the Dark One's banishment."

Gandalf's expression became grave. He met Tauriel's gaze briefly, and the elleth felt a deadly chill from the soles of her feet to her fiery hair. Before either of them could speak, Kíli sprang forward, standing between them and leaning only slightly against his wife's bracing hand, which she placed on his shoulder.

"No. I won't let you tear our family apart. I would rather mine iron in Gundabad than let you take her away."

"No mining of Gundabad will be necessary, Master Kíli," said Gandalf, not missing a beat. He turned back to Lindir. "You may inform Lord Elrond I will come soon. I have matters to settle here first."

"Very good," said the dark-haired elf, bowing before gratefully making his exit.

Kíli fixed his wife with a pleading look. "You can't mean it," he said, shaking his head. The elleth thought he looked very vulnerable; her resolve nearly crumbled.

"I am willing to do what I must in defense of those I love," she replied softly. "If I am called upon to serve... how can I refuse?"

"Easy. You say no." Kíli sounded slightly hysterical. "The twins need you, Tauri. I need you."

It was like a physical pain to hear the fear in his voice. Tauriel winced a little, and felt herself shudder. "If I'm not sent, I won't go." Her voice shook slightly. "I don't want to go, Kee, but I will if I have to."

She knew this answer wouldn't satisfy him, but she had to be true to her own convictions. It was as simple as that.

The dwarf's brown eyes bored into her, and she was forced to turn away.

"Unless I am needed elsewhere," she said, directing her words at Gandalf, "I think it likely we'll head to Erebor soon."

The Wizard nodded. "Good. You will know soon, I would guess." With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet. "Possibly within the hour."

"The sooner we know, the better." Tauriel felt the weight of uncertainty pressing her down, as if it would sink her into the stone. She almost wished it would. The door had only just closed behind Gandalf when Kíli turned to her.

"Please," he started, but Tauriel shook her head.

"Don't ask it of me, Kíli. I won't promise any more than I already have." He was quiet for what seemed a long moment. Then something seemed to shift within him. His features hardened, and he looked away. "As you wish."

"Don't be like that."

The dwarf stood, stepping past her toward the door.

"Please, Kee. Don't."

He ignored her, throwing his cloak on and stalking out into the cold white dusk. Tauriel watched him go, and felt as though her insides were breaking apart. Would there always be some barrier between them? Every time love seemed to settle and grow, something else happened that threatened to tear them apart. 

"If it means anything, I understand." Ori's voice came from a dim corner of the room, and Tauriel jumped. The dwarrowdam was a quiet creature, and more than once she had startled Tauriel when the elleth had thought she was alone.

"I appreciate it," she murmured, glancing into the round, concerned face of her friend. "I don't know how much your understanding will help, though. It's not the first time we've disagreed on this. The conviction that drives me to say I'm willing to take this on is the same that drove me to pledge my service to a dwarf and abandon my home of five centuries. I went to fight a dragon for the sake of this world, my home. I fought the agents of the Necromancer for my home. I supported Thorin for my home." Tauriel closed her eyes. Tears might come, now or anon, but what good would they do? "I chose to love Kíli for myself. I bound myself to him for no one's gain but my own. Now I wonder if it might have been kinder not to have done so. I hurt him by what I am, and so wound myself. Thus the lives of mortals and immortals are sundered."

"If I know one thing about Kíli, it's that he loves you more than life itself." The slight crease to Ori's sandy-colored brows suggested mild reproach. "You are his world. That's why he reacted the way he did. He can't imagine losing you. Think if you were in his place. I warrant you'd be just as unhappy. So to suggest it would have been better for you to have never been joined..." She shook her head. "It's clear to me at least that what you have is worth keeping, even if it's not always easy." 

Tauriel twitched at the implication. "I won't leave him. Not if I can help it. I made my choice. I just... hate hurting him."

Ori's expression softened a little. "I understand," she repeated, and they said nothing more. Tauriel thought long on what Ori had said, waiting for Kíli to return. Or Gandalf. Whoever came back soonest.

It was the Wizard, in the end, who first set foot in the door. The twins were both asleep under the watchful eye of Ori, and Tauriel sat by the fire trying to lose herself in knitting, though it wasn't clear exactly what she was making, as it more resembled a tangled spider web than a garment.

"The Ring will set out for Mordor on the morrow," Gandalf pronounced in lieu of a greeting, looking very grave. Tauriel's keen eyes detected something like exhaustion beneath the old man's stony veneer, though it was hard to tell in the dim light.

The elleth nodded, setting her work aside. "And who will carry it?"

Gandalf hesitated, as though he had reservations. "Any information with which I entrust you may put you in danger, but I leave the decision up to you."

Tauriel twitched in surprise. "You mean... I'm not going?" It wasn't an unwelcome revelation, but at the same time... she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

The Wizard seemed to sense both halves of her mind, his blue-grey eyes studying her knowingly. "Against my counsel, but no. The Ring will go with the sons of Elrond, and a small party of Dunedain rangers. It will not be borne by any one of them, however, lest its evil taint and corrupt its bearer. It will be locked in a chest and carried on a beast of burden."

The Wizard sighed, shaking his head. "We can only hope that their passage is swift and untroubled by servants of the Enemy."

Tauriel felt herself relax. Conflicted or not, her feelings on the matter were moot now. The choice had been made, her role determined. "Thank you for telling us. It... simplifies things." She considered a moment longer, then nodded and stood. "Ori, can you watch the twins? I want to go find Kíli."

The dwarrowdam nodded. "Of course."

Gandalf opened the door for her as she reached for her shawl. "I think you'll find him at the forges, unless I miss my guess."

The Wizard was right, naturally. Weak as he was, Tauriel couldn't imagine how Kíli had found the strength to make it here, let alone perform the labor of smithing. And yet, as she stood just outside the open doorway, she could see his shadow on the inner wall, dancing amongst the glow of red flame, hammer-arm rising and falling furiously, its ringing echoing off the stone. It was, perhaps, the only way he could manage emotions too powerful to dismiss, too painful to ignore.

Her heart twisted once more at the reminder of how her need to serve affected her husband. But it was who she was, at her very core. He could no more ask her to be untrue to what she believed than he could ask fire to freeze, or ice to burn.

She entered the doorway, watching him a moment. His back was to her, the muscles of his shoulders standing out starkly as he worked, gleaming with sweat. His cloak and tunic, she noted, had been left on a bench by the door.

"Kíli," she said softly.

The dwarf pounded the metal on his anvil twice more, then let the hammer rest. She could see in his shuddering outline, hear in his hard breathing, the amount of effort this had taken. She didn't blame him, but she hoped the exhaustion wouldn't harm him. Kíli said nothing, but turned his head slightly, so she could see part of his profile. He was listening.

"I was not chosen as the Ring-bearer. I will stay."

He visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping, his chin lowering nearly to his chest. When he looked up again, turning back to her, there was tremendous relief in his face, and he pushed himself up from his work bench, leaving his hammer behind. The glowing steel was forgotten, and Tauriel had a notion he wouldn't touch it again.

"I... I was so sure you would leave," he said simply, stepping toward her weakly. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his hair hung lank about his thin, pinched face.

Tauriel surprised herself by throwing her arms around him tightly, then loosing her grip him enough to press a kiss to his bearded cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, love. Except to Erebor. With you and our little ones."

Kíli grinned, quite shocked out of his mood, and probably too relieved to feel anything but joy. His sturdy arms enveloped her, and he held her close, one hand tracing the silken strands of her hair down her back. "Maybe we can detour to the bathtub along the way?" He winked, and Tauriel made a show of wrinkling her nose in agreement.

Kíli might have left the forge as he was, but Tauriel pressed him into dressing again before she would take him back to the house. One long, luxurious, and somewhat embarrassingly intimate bath later, Tauriel and Kíli made their way toward their room to relieve Ori and sleep for the night. The evening had been a long one, and Tauriel could feel in her husband's swaying gait the need for rest.

But instead of rest and sleep, they met a blond elf in the hallway. His travel cloak was damp with melted snow, and his keen blue eyes searched Tauriel's face.

"Legolas." She gave him a faint smile, and felt the dwarven braids before and behind her ears swinging against her neck, still damp from their bath.

The blonde surveyed her a moment, knowing regard in his eyes. They'd always been paler than Thranduil's, but had a tendency to look ghostly grey in dim lighting. The fact she still knew him so well surprised her, but she supposed one did not easily forget hundreds of years spent in another's company.

"You look well," he said, a certain coldness to his tone.

Tauriel felt Kíli tense slightly beside her.

"I enjoy being... unencumbered," she replied, smiling freely. "As you might expect. What brings you to Rivendell?"

"You."

At first, Tauriel thought she might have misheard. It seemed so forward - nothing like what she expected from Legolas. Turning her head slightly, she traded a look with her husband. Kíli was as rigid as a bar of steel, and his hand glided up around her waist.

"May I speak with you privately, my lady?"

To his credit, Kíli only  _ looked _ like he wanted to strangle Legolas. At least he had the restraint not to open his mouth.

Tauriel studied the blonde's expression carefully, disliking his manner, but reasoning he had never given her any cause to fear he had ill intent. For years beyond count, they'd trusted each other in everything, and neither had proved false. Kíli wouldn't like it, but she owed her friend that much.

"The room next door is empty," she said softly. Kíli didn't protest, though she could tell he was biting his tongue. She knew he'd always felt she preferred Legolas. It wasn't true, of course, but jealousy, as she well knew, didn't tend to heed reason.

"I'll follow soon, my love," she said, turning away from the dwarf. Though she didn't look, she imagined he was glaring daggers at the blonde.

Kíli spoke at last. "Tauriel?" There was a pleading quality to his tone that saddened the elleth, and she wished he could trust her fully to be true to him. But perhaps it wasn't his wife he was concerned about.

Tauriel stopped and turned back. Bending, she touched her forehead to his, whispering her love to him. Legolas could no doubt hear them, but he said nothing.

With a final touch, trailing her fingers along his beard, the elleth gave her husband an encouraging smile and turned to lead Legolas into the next room. Kíli's eyes burned into her back, but she didn't turn back a second time.

The room was, as she had said, empty. The lanterns were dark, the hearth cold. In the darkness, Legolas stood quietly for the space of many heartbeats before he spoke again.

"I want to know," he said quietly, "why you chose as you did." The elf's tone was tense, full of conflicted feelings, and Tauriel guessed that he was fighting the same kind of battle that had so recently threatened her own peace of mind. Tauriel sighed and ran a hand through her damp hair, fingering her braids.

"The choosing is done, my friend. My reasons, even if words could contain them, would not undo that choice."

The long pause after this did not surprise her.

"What do you hope to accomplish here,  _ mellon'nín _ ?" she asked him at last.

"I merely wanted to know if things might have been... different between us. That is all." The tightness of the words, carefully controlled and modulated, told her he was doing his best to hold back.

She shrugged, finding the gesture diffused some of the tension of the moment. "Perhaps. If you're asking me if I cared for you in that way once... I think you know. But in the hundreds of years we fought and served...." She trailed off, considering how to put it. "Nothing came of it. In any case, it was forbidden."

Legolas made a sudden movement. Though he neither touched her nor spoke, she felt the violent emotions seething under his skin as surely as if they had been her own. Tauriel wished there was a way to alleviate his suffering.

"Your healing is your own," she murmured. "You will always be one of my dearest friends, and I will not forget that."

In the next room, an infant whimpered. Gathien, waking from her nap. Possibly, she needed to be changed. Tauriel had already half turned toward the noise, but Legolas' hand stopped her.

"But why a  _ dwarf? _ " he asked, and his confusion was nearly painful to hear.

"I love him, Legolas. That is all you need know." She paused a moment, disliking the feeling of the words in her mouth. "We can speak another time. You are tired, and my children need me."

"And when he dies?" Legolas' words caught her off guard, and she twitched as if prodded by hot iron. "What then, Tauriel?" His grip on her arm tightened, though it struck her as less an action meant to stop her as one meant to keep her from harm. "He can only live a few hundred years; your life will far outstrip his, even if his isn't cut short by some other mortal misfortune." He paused, allowing his meaning to sink in. "You will be left alone." 

"I have my children. And their children, in the future. The halfling's little ones will be under my care, and theirs after them." She knew the truth of her own words, but that didn't stop her voice from shaking a little. "The loss of one love is not the loss of all loves, no matter the pain."

"I forget sometimes how young you are," the blonde replied, his fingers sliding off her arm as though they'd lost their will to hold. "You do not understand the meaning of immortality, maybe."

That made the elleth angry, and she stepped away from him a pace. "I'm not a child. I've seen more of death and grief than many an elf three times my age, enough that I understand the meaning of loss as well as you, I think."

"To see is not to feel," Legolas replied icily. "The years will harden you, and make you bitter."

"Surely there are more ellith in the guard who take your fancy, Legolas!" she snapped. "I was not the only one who worshipped you for nigh on a hundred years, and received only your indifference."

She regretted the words, but there was no unsaying them. "Perhaps the morning light will shine more kindly on you." It was a challenge to soften her tone at all. "You are tired, my lord, and it is late. Good night." She turned to leave. This time, Legolas didn't stop her.

She wasn't sure if she'd expected him to or not.

Kíli was sitting in the chair by the fire when she returned, a mug of ale on his knee, though she saw it was nearly full. He'd barely touched it. Ori had somehow managed to settle the babies again, a wonder in its own right. Sometimes the same feat took an hour or more.

"Kíli," Tauriel started, taking a few tentative steps toward the hearth. She didn't know what she would say, only that something had to be said. "I know what you're thinking, but...." She trailed off, and the dwarf turned his head toward her slightly.

"I don't doubt you, Tauri. I hope that wasn't what you thought I was thinking."

"Doubt, no," she said quietly. "But I knew you would worry. One way or another." She sat down on the floor by his feet. It was her favorite position, partially because Kíli would play with her hair this way, and she enjoyed the feeling of his fingers against her scalp. Partially, Tauriel knew she was expressing a sort of submission to him that didn't quite make up for her own duty-bound nature.

"What did he say?" The dwarf's voice was soft, and somewhat rough, but she felt his free hand beginning to stroke her hair.

"He will regret what was said on the morrow," she said quietly. "He was upset, and not thinking clearly."

"He asked you to leave me. I know it." The way Kíli spoke made her heart ache. Mournful acceptance, as if he felt she had every reason to abandon him for Legolas.

She wished the prince hadn't come. She knew her own mind, but Kíli... how could he feel fully secure in the knowledge her decision to love him was final?

"Yes," she answered, finally. His fingers in her hair tensed, but continued. "He made his preference known, and so did I." She turned to meet his gaze. His dark eyes glowed nearly amber in the firelight, catching her off guard. He was upset, obviously, and rightly so. But she sensed a strong part of him was willing to trust her to fight her own battles.

"I told him my choice was made. Where my mind once wavered... I am now sure." She reached up to take his hand, and felt her fingers bump against the mug that he still held, untouched.

There was conflict in Kíli's eyes when she looked up at him, and she wondered if they would ever just be... happy. But at the same time, would any happiness gained without a struggle be worthwhile? She rested her cheek against his knee and sighed.

"I chose you. I love you. The opinions of a Woodland Prince won't change that." 

He was quiet the space of a few seconds, though his expression seemed to shift subtly. "All the same, I wish he'd leave. I'll be biting my tongue for the rest of his stay here."

"I doubt he will stay long," Tauriel intoned quietly. "I was... rather strong in my rebuff. He knows there is nothing for him here."

Inwardly, the elleth wished Legolas had just accepted her offer of friendship. He had been her confidant and ally for so many years... and now it seemed that friendship meant nothing, and was somehow less desirable. She rested against Kíli's knee and made a quiet, happy noise in her throat when he resumed stroking her hair.

Over her head, she heard him take a drink of his ale, and smiled. Perhaps things would be alright after all. For now, anyway.

* * *

The morning was chilly and damp with clinging mist. Tauriel knew Kíli would have preferred to stay inside, but since he was also determined not to let her out of his sight, he accompanied her to the bridge. The travelers had already gathered. A young brown and grey mule stood in their midst, its long ears twitching to and fro as the silent men finished loading supplies on its back. If it was already carrying the cask and the Ring, Tauriel couldn't tell. That was probably the point.

Then an unexpected blond figure emerged from the mist. Legolas was carrying a pack, his bow, and two quivers; one on his back, the second at his waist. Clearly, he was ready for a long journey. Equally clearly, he planned to join the Dunedain and Elrond's sons. Tauriel watched, more surprised than she wanted to admit, as the Twins approached Legolas and spoke softly with him. Elladan and Elrohir, unlike her own twins, were identical in almost every way. After a minute, they retreated, nodding. Legolas had been accepted. He was going with them.

Surprise was eclipsed by jealousy, and she didn't know why. She hadn't exactly asked to go, and it was plain to all she had three good reasons to stay. But just as soon as that feeling had snagged at her insides, it was swallowed up in something very like fear.

"Wait," she said, taking a few quick steps toward him. The blond turned, his expression unreadable as he absently adjusted a quiver strap on his shoulder. Much as it pained the elleth, it was clear he expected a continuation of last night.

She had no such thing in mind. "Why are you doing this,  _ mellon _ ?" Her green eyes searched his stoic features plaintively, looking for clues. He could be surprisingly good at hiding his true thought when he had a mind to.

Legolas met her gaze evenly. There was silence between them for a little while, and when he answered, his tone was quiet. Calm.

"I'm going because it's my world, too."

Tauriel felt the words like a kick in the gut, an echo to the very answer she had given to him when he asked why she'd pledged her service to Thorin. She felt Kíli at her side, and knew he could sense her tension. Her fear.

"You don't have to," she said quietly, and gave Kíli's hand a squeeze as his fingers laced through hers.

"I know," Legolas replied, intentionally keeping his gaze on Tauriel. She didn't want to imagine what sort of expression Kíli was currently fixing him with. "You've made your choice. I've made mine."

Tauriel's shapely brows lowered slightly. "What are you saying?"

"I was wrong, Tauriel. Last night. I was wrong to think I could change your mind." Legolas' face softened, revealing hints of regret. "I know you don't make your decisions... lightly."

Tauriel felt something inside her untwist, and shuddered slightly with relief. On the one hand, she was glad he understood. On the other hand, she was worried about her friend. She gripped Kíli's hand tighter.

"You'll try to survive this? I don't have many friends, and I prefer not to lose them, when it can be prevented." She tried to smile, but she could tell by Legolas' reaction that worry could be seen in her expression. He touched her shoulder comfortingly.

"I'll come back when it's finished." It was a simple statement. As good as a promise. And with that, he moved to join the Men about the mule. Tauriel felt pressure behind her eyes, hot and uncomfortable. She wouldn't cry. But the temptation was there. She was quite distracted from the impulse when a small figure darted onto the bridge, his little feet displacing the low-hanging mist as he ran.

"Legolas! You promised!" The boy was still in his nightclothes, his wavy brown hair mussed and wild.

The blond elf turned, clear surprise in his face. "Estel?"

"You promised we'd go hunting!"

Legolas sighed a little and put a long, pale hand on the boy's slim shoulder. "I'm sorry, Estel. I know I promised. Something's come up. I'll have to go soon."

"But you promised!" The boy was clearly upset, his grey eyes swimming with outraged tears. "It's not  _ fair! _ "

"No, it's not. But maybe when I come back, I can keep my promise. Will you wait for me?"

Estel seemed to consider a moment, then nodded, drying his eyes. After a pause, he looked up at the elf again. "You sure I can't... go with you now? I could help! I know I could. I wouldn't be a bother."

Legolas chuckled, shaking his fair head. "Not this time, Estel. Maybe one day, when you're a little older. Meantime, I suggest you practice. I don't know if you know this, but Tauriel," he glanced at the elleth with a smile, and Estel turned to look, "is a great archer and dagger-hand. One of the best I've fought alongside. I'm sure she wouldn't mind giving you a lesson or two." He winked.

Estel's eyes widened, and he looked hopefully at Tauriel, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Really?"

"I don't see why not, as long as you've done your chores." She had seen Elrond treat this boy like a son, and felt his clear gaze like starlight. He was a good child, and she had a feeling he would learn quickly, especially if Legolas was willing to teach him. The blond was not patient with those that needed to be told more than once.

"Estel, come here." The voice was Elrond's, and he looked, perhaps, graver than Tauriel had ever seen him. Gandalf was at his side, a leather pouch dangling from one shoulder, Glamdring at his belt. The Wizard, it seemed, would accompany the group.

Estel ran to his father, who put an arm about him, as much to comfort him as contain him. But the elf lord's gaze was upon his twin sons.

"Don't look like that, Ada," said Elladan, taking a stride away from the others. "You said yourself we're not likely to encounter much danger."

"Not likely and won't aren't the same thing," said Elrond somberly. "You are brave, swift, and strong. I know you will do your best."

Tauriel gave Kíli's fingers a squeeze and looked down at him. He seemed calmer now, which she appreciated. "I'm sure everything will turn out alright," she murmured.

He nodded. "As long as Gandalf doesn't run off along the way, as he's so fond of doing." The words were spoken softly, but the Wizard turned a look on them that made Kíli twitch. Then the Wizard smiled, and Tauriel couldn't help but feel more at ease about the whole affair.

All was nearly ready. The rangers, Tauriel noticed, were relatively few, no more than 10, unless more were hiding in the swirling white fog beyond as it rose up from the falls below. They spoke in quiet, murmuring voices, which befitted these tall, grey-cloaked Men who lived ever in shadow, guardians of the helpless. The mule was getting restless, its hooves clopping crisply against the stone bridge, mostly unseen in the drifting mist, but it seemed the poor beast wouldn't have to wait much longer.

"May the Valar guide you in their wisdom," said Elrond softly, lowering his head in a bow. "All our hopes go with you, and strengthen you along the way."

Each of the rangers, and all three elves going with them, turned to face Elrond and bowed deeply to him, hand on breast. Then, with only faint murmured farewells, they turned and moved silently away into the mist. In a matter of seconds, it had swallowed them completely, and the mule's hoofbeats were drowned by the sound of the river.

Tauriel sighed. "It's out of our hands, now. All we need do is wait for spring, and return to Erebor."

And that was that. The Quest of the Ring was no longer their concern. Tauriel wondered if even Billa knew the truth about the "lucky ring" she'd once thought a chance bit of good fortune. Maybe not. And yet, she'd played a part in its journey, willing or no. Kíli's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Let's go back, love. We can ask Ori to write a letter to Erebor, since she wants more news on her brother. Let them know we're coming." He sounded more at ease now, and a quick glance at his face told the same tale.

She nodded, and hand in hand, the two followed after Elrond and Estel, the latter of whom kept looking back over his shoulder with a measure of awe.

Tauriel allowed herself a smile. She was still worried about Legolas and the rest, of course. She would be until they returned safely. But the very fact that there would be no more uncertainty, no more questioning... it made things more manageable. They went back inside to their family and breakfast and rest, until spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits made to avert a paradox! The paradox of Thorin and Billa learning that Tauriel and Kili were coming back before they'd made the decision to do so. Many thanks to those who noticed so I could make that correction.


	43. Billa; As it Should Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billa tries to convince her husband that she is, in fact, fully recovered. There is only limited success, but much happiness.

Even deep within the stone of Erebor, Billa was certain she could feel spring in the air. It might have been her imagination, or simply the way the Mountain had changed in so short a time. Old rooms cleared and redecorated, new figures chiseled and placed, supplies rebuilt, a labor force revitalized. It all felt fresh and new, like age-old dust cleared from where it had settled, swept out by a breeze long-denied. Erebor's rightful king had returned, and her people were ready for the new beginning that had been denied them before.

Not that Billa had had a chance to rediscover much of the kingdom yet. Thorin, she decided, was a bit a of a pest when it came to the personal well-being of his wife.

Predictably, he had confined her to the newly rebuilt queen's chambers, where he must've expected she would be content to languish in the comfort and opulence befitting her station – at least until she was fully recovered. Also predictably, Billa sneaked out a lot.

Just to stretch her legs. Nothing serious. But she had a feeling Thorin would've been gravely displeased if he'd known. Dwarven healers were annoyingly rigorous when it came to treating new mothers, and the soon-to-be King Under the Mountain followed their recommendations slavishly.

"Not that it isn't good for me sometimes," she finished with a sigh, and set down her cup. "The nightmares are still awful when they come. But honestly, there's nothing wrong with me." The hobbit lifted her gaze from the dregs of her tea to look at Bombur, who seemed torn between understanding and amusement. With so many children of his own, he had to know what it was like.

"I suppose halflings are hardier than we give you credit for," he admitted with a smile, and lifted the pot to pour her another cup of tea. It was coarse dwarven brew, strong and dark, but Billa didn't mind, so long as she had a bit of cream and sugar with it.

"My mother was back at work in her garden two days after I was born with me strapped to her back in the autumn sun. And I don't think she was unusual." Billa nodded firmly, then tilted her head to glance into the sling across her chest with one bright eye. Dís was awake, sucking on her fist and watching her mother's bouncing curls with interest. Bombur raised explosive red eyebrows. 

"My own wife was certainly not so quick to recover, though she would've insisted otherwise." He smiled, absently running a hand over the thick loop of his braided beard. "The healers had her confined to her bed much like you, barred from hard work for a week and more. I suppose she didn't mind that for a change." He winked. Billa smiled, but looked down at her tea after a moment. Remembering her mother and the Shire and the beautiful old hole... she realized what was making her so restless. 

"It's spring," she said softly. "Even down here, under all this stone, buried away from the sun, I can feel it. I miss my garden. The smell of the earth. My own little kitchen, and the windows looking out over the Hill and the field, feeling the breeze come through the guest rooms when I open them up to air out."

When she looked up, Billa saw Bombur looking worried, and knew at once what he must be thinking. That she wanted to go back. Of course she did. Maybe part of her always would. But her home was here with her family. She could never leave Thorin and Dís and Dwalin and Nikû, and dear Fíli, and all the rest.

"I have nothing to do here, Bombur. I'm not even allowed to leave my rooms. Dís is nearly four months old, did you know that? Four months, and it's time for plowing and planting. I haven't felt dirt under my nails in a good way since before you lot showed up on my doorstep." Realizing she hadn't allayed his fear, she waved a hand at him. "I'm not going anywhere, Bombur. I love you all. I wouldn't. I  _ couldn't. _ But I'm no china aster to be put on a shelf and dusted." With a sigh, she rose to leave. Her tea was finished, and she needed to return before someone noticed that she had slipped away. Bombur stood with her. 

"I'm sure if Thorin knew," the cook began, but his strained words trailed off when she looked at him sardonically. 

"If he knew. That's the thing, though, isn't it? I'm not sure he wants to. Thank you for listening, Bombur. It helps." Giving Bombur a tight hug and planting a kiss on his cheek that left him as red as his beard, she returned to her quarters.

Billa probably shouldn't have been surprised when, less than two hours later, a large pot of soil was deposited near her bed, fresh from the spring-awakened outdoors.

"Bebotherment and confustication!" the hobbit exclaimed with a shake of her curly head that sent her beads chiming together. "Must you dwarves always be so literal?" She didn't mean it, of course. As far as she was concerned, it was the nicest present she'd received in a good while. It made the whole room smell of fresh, damp earth in a way she'd dearly missed.

Thorin peeked his head in the door, his face revealing only the slightest hint of amusement.

"I might've known you were behind this," Billa said. She poked a finger at the pot, trying (and failing) to look very put out. Dís, left in her heavy wooden cradle, let out a shriek of protest. Without a thought, Billa picked her up and carried her to the pot so she too could see the dark, moist earth. "See what your daddy brought us? Isn't he thoughtful?" She glanced at Thorin again, and saw laughter hiding in his eyes.

"So Bombur informed on me? The traitor." Billa smiled, and dug one hand deep into the pot of earth, turning it over and breathing it in.

"He wanted to be sure you would be happy, here in the Mountain, even if you refuse to listen to the Healers." Thorin finally entered, closing the door quietly behind himself.

The little one seemed very intent on reaching for the dirt, which pleased Billa greatly. "You see? It's in our blood. Gardening, working the soil. She may look more like you, but she's a hobbit, through and through."

"Hm." Thorin was still smiling fondly, and Billa drank in the sight. To see the care and grief washed from his face was precious, and she vowed to cherish every moment of it.

"Erebor's new gardens will need a caretaker," he said, after a pause she thought terribly calculated. "I was thinking of asking... Ginii if she would be interested." 

"Wait,  _ gardens? _ " the hobbit exclaimed, barely able to contain herself. Then the second part of his statement registered. "Ha! No you weren't going to ask Ginii, you ridiculous dwarf. You know well enough I'd  _ trample _ anybody who got between me and a job like that." 

Gardens. Time  _ outside _ in the sun. Even the thought of it sent tremors of excitement through her. Then Dís threw a handful of dirt into the air and showered her mother with it. Billa laughed and shook moist earth out of her curls while her baby girl gurgled and smiled, waving her pudgy fists happily.

"Oh, Thorin, you're wonderful!" Billa sprang to her feet and kissed her husband, grinning. "And here I used to think you wouldn't take suggestions from anyone. I've never been happier to be wrong."

Thorin ran a hand through her curls, whisking away some clinging dirt clods. "I'm not the dwarf I used to be." He chuckled, his beautiful eyes sparkling in a way Billa couldn't quite explain. The light in them was once like fire, yet somehow cold- icy and fierce. Wolfish. Now it was gentler, though no less vibrant. It was clear he’d never been happier in his life.

Billa laughed. "Thank goodness." She offered Dís to Thorin, who scooped the tiny babe up in his big hands and pressed her gently to his shoulder. "The dwarf I met at Bag End would've never imagined he'd one day be married to his burglar." She winked, leaning into him, cheek against his sturdy chest. He was wearing a short fur mantle, fastened beneath his throat in silver, and Billa snuggled into the soft, silky fur with a contented sigh.

Billa felt a soft, rumbly hum, vibrating through Thorin's throat and chest and seeping into her body like warm water.

A soft knock at the door interrupted them, and Nikû peered around the edge at them as the heavy wood swung gently outward.

"Visitors arriving at the gate, Your Majesties," she said quietly. "A small company of elves under the banner of Imladris." 

Billa had thought she'd reached her limit of excitement for the day, but evidently not. "Is it...? It's  _ them, _ isn't it?" She took a step back, eyes wide with surprise.

Thorin nodded, then seemed to guess her next inclination. "The healers have said you shouldn't-"

"Stuff and nonsense!" Billa cut him off. "Just let them  _ try _ and stop me." With an impish grin, she flung on her familiar blue coat and charged past the others out into the corridor.

"You'll take care of Dís won't you, Nikû?" she called over her shoulder, somewhat carelessly.

She didn't see the bodyguard twitch slightly at her back, as though reminded of things she had forgotten, and preferred to keep that way.

Her feet were soundless on the stone, her body felt light as a feather and springy and strong, as if she were only 30 again. Billa laughed for sheer delight, and when she heard Thorin's heavy boots pounding along behind her, the hobbit put on an extra burst of speed. How many years had it been since she ran just for the fun of it? She remembered the dash from Bag End that March morning and laughed to herself.

"Billa!" The King Under the Mounted sounded like he couldn't decide whether to laugh along with her or not. She heard someone behind her call "Your Majesty," and Thorin's boots stopped (reluctantly, she thought). Billa ran on until she had a stitch in her side and her knees wobbled. Giggling breathlessly, she reached the front gate, where dwarves had gathered to see the new guests. They looked at her strangely, but bowed and murmured "at your service" formally. She barely noticed, intent as she was on identifying the approaching party. 

It was a small group, to be sure. Four tall, slender figures had to be Elves, and that meant the two shorter ones were most definitely dwarves. The smallest of the four Elves was likely Tauriel, and even at this distance Billa could just see the hint of red that was the she-elf's hair. The midday sun was warm upon her curls as she stepped forth from the gates. She tilted her head back, drinking in the sky, the air, the light. She felt practically giddy, intoxicated with joy and reveling in her freedom.

Something thudded past her while she was distracted, moving so fast for a moment all she glimpsed was a streak of blonde hair.

Billa lowered her gaze from the sky to watch the running figure. "Fíli?"

It was indeed the young dwarf, and if ever there was one more eager for a reunion, she couldn't recall. He charged down the sloping road heedlessly, waving his arms as if to push the air aside, the hood of his tunic bouncing at his back. Billa didn't need to see the look on his face to know what it was.

"Ori! Kíli!" Fíli's voice traveled back up to the gates, muted by distance, but still recognizable.

Billa laughed again, sharing in the blonde's delight. The gathered dwarves might've thought her mad, but she cared little. She began to walk toward the elves at a more dignified pace, mostly because she was already out of breath and needed time to breathe in the fresh air and soak in the sun before she could speak to their guests. In this distance she saw one of the dwarves break away and dart forward to meet Fíli as he ran. She was willing to bet that was Ori. The two running figures collided and fell together on the rocky soil, clinging to each other and laughing. Or maybe they were crying. She hoped it was laughter.

By the time Billa met with them, Fíli and Ori were on their feet again, hands clasped, and the elves stood around them with merry smiles. And there was Tauriel, wearing a sling with one curious baby in it, peering over her shoulder at the goings-on. A second baby was on Kíli's back, also awake and chewing on one of his braids. That explained why he hadn't run to his brother.

"Well, look at you!" Kíli exclaimed, grinning, looking Billa over. "Much better than when Gandalf dragged you off. Still can't believe Elrond let him."

Billa shrugged, chuckling lightly. "He probably knew there's no point in arguing once a Wizard has his mind set. And anyway, I'm fine. All's well that ends so."

She moved around behind Kíli to have a better look at the baby on his back. "This one won't need a feeding, I think. Seems to have acquired a taste for your hair."

"You have no idea," Kíli said, shaking his head seriously. By the frazzled look of several of his braids, Billa guessed it had been an ongoing problem.

"Only hair that's been braided," commented Tauriel. Her braids, too, looked rather more fuzzy than Billa recalled. Billa grinned.

"There are worse things to have a taste for," she pointed out. "My mother told me when I was a faunt, I was ever trying to eat her books."

"For shame, Miss Baggins!" One of the other elves laughed at his companion's cheerful outcry, and the hobbit focused on them at last.

"I don't suppose you three were the ones singing in the garden in the middle of the night during my last visit?" she asked shrewdly.

"Most likely not," answered one, a tall male with a long, pale face. He smiled down at her.

"But it might have been," added another, a round-faced female with solemn laughter in her eyes.

"Talathion here  _ is _ well-known for his singing," the third chimed in, a youthful-looking male with red-brown hair and a cheeky expression. He nudged the blonde, grinning. "It's said: Imladris closes windows when he blesses it with song... and opens them again only once he's gone."

They all chuckled at that, not the least because it was spoken in a lyrical quality that gave Billa the idea it was a popular rhyme currently applied to the unfortunate blonde.

Fíli had borrowed the little, red-haired boy from Kíli's back, bouncing him in an effort to distract him from a bounteous feast of golden braids. Kíli laughed appreciatively, patting his brother's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Fee. You'll get used to it."

From the look on Fíli's face, he wasn't sure he wanted to get used to it. Already, the little hands had caught a thick braid and drawn it to the babe's mouth. Billa laughed, and so did Ori. Her braids, tucked safely behind her ears, looked as smooth and neat as if she had braided them only that morning. Which she might have.

"Please, come inside." The hobbit smiled around at all of them, feeling buoyed by the atmosphere of family and togetherness.

"Yes, please do." Thorin's voice was close behind her, and Billa turned, surprised to see him. She hadn't heard him approach. Then again, her attention had been on other things. 

Together they moved up the slope, crossing the bridge to the gates and entering with relatively minimal ceremony, which Billa was grateful for. Beyond the entryway and through the halls to the guest chambers, the corridors were broad and well-lit, brightened at intervals with hanging lanterns and beautiful tapestries. Servants quickly relieved the travelers of their minimal belongings, opening the first room and bidding them enter. Billa hadn't yet seen the redecorating process; she thought it very impressive. Dwarven accommodations, she knew, would ever lack the comfort and charm of Bag End, but these were about as comfortable as it got in Erebor.

The beds, tables, and chairs were newly built using the finest joinery, something Thorin had mentioned being commissioned by tradesman from the East. Each of the beds in this room featured a canopy woven in eye-pleasing, interlocking designs, and was laid with truly enormous blankets stitched from luscious wolf and sheep pelts. The walls glowed golden with firelight, illumining intricate carvings in low relief – probably scenes taken from dwarven history. Billa made a note to have a look at them later.

Kíli immediately fell backwards on the nearest bed, rolling up in a sumptuous fur blanket and seeming to disappear beneath it. Ori giggled behind a hand while Fíli returned the braid-eating baby to his mother.

“If you need anything at all,” Thorin advised the elves with a courteous bow, “don't hesitate to ask.” He glanced at the furry lump on the bed and sighed. “Kíli, don't get too comfortable. You and your family have your own room. Near the royal suites. You'll be across from Fíli.”  

"I don't know. We could just leave him here," suggested Billa with a wicked smile. All this excitement had made her feel like a naughty faunt all over again, though Thorin's presence was like an anchor to her flighty whims.

Tauriel was holding both babes tight to her chest now. The little redheaded male was contently gnawing on one of her braids, but the female was squirming. She wanted down, wanted to explore this new place. "It's been a long time since we had access to fur," she murmured, glancing down at Billa with a twinkle in her eye. "In Rivendell, all the blankets are silk and cotton, and the meals aren't as hardy as a dwarf might wish." 

Kíli chuckled, rolling out of the fur. "Just happy to be home. Here, love." He moved quickly to Tauriel, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll take Gathi."

The elleth handed the little female over, and the group, minus the three accompanying elves, made their way back out the door.

Thorin led them down the corridor and through the central courtyard, where Billa noticed the large fountain - an impressive stone boar, one foreleg raised - had been fully repaired and now spouted water from its open mouth. Four more streams arced around it, the gentle trickling echoing throughout the hall.

Kíli gaped at it as they passed, clearly impressed. "Never had anything like that back in Ered Luin," he commented.

"Beautiful," agreed Billa, and decided she'd found a new reading spot when she next got her hands on some books.

After a few more turns down the corridor leading out of the courtyard, they arrived at the royal suites, and proceeded further down the hall.

"That's our room," said Fíli, squeezing Ori's hand and pointing at a wide door plated at intervals in brass. Billa realized it had been embossed with Fíli's personal crest and symbols that were probably representative of his marriage with Ori. On the opposite side of the hall, Kíli and Tauriel's room featured similar adornment on the door, though there were blank spots in the brass.

"Why'd they do that?" she asked, pointing to the blank portions of the pattern.

Thorin shook his head. "The artisans did not know Lady Tauriel's symbols. They will finish their work when she has made her preference known."

Billa looked around at the redheaded elleth, who was gazing at the door with an odd expression on her face. It was hard to identify, until a pink flush colored her pale cheeks. She was  _ embarrassed. _

"I don't... Kee." She looked down at her husband, who appeared to be torn between laughter and sympathy.

"We'll figure it out," he assured her, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile.

Billa glanced at Thorin, and found him looking at the pair measuringly, as if trying to determine whether or not they matched an outline only he could see. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but figured she'd get his perspective later, in private.

The room Kíli and Tauriel would share was spacious, as Billa had expected, and featured a large, polished cedar bed in complex joinery, as well as two cribs in the same style, meticulously carved and detailed. As the others gasped and moved to examine the fine furniture, Billa turned to Thorin again.

"You're full of surprises, love." She reached up, tugging teasingly at a bit of trailing fur on his cloak. "I hadn't caught more than a hint of what you were up to."

The dwarf smiled down at her. "Just wait until you see the crib I've had made for our little Dís."

Billa raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You mean... more impressive than these? How's that possible?"

Thorin huffed a soft laugh, seeming very cryptic. "Wait and see."

Billa muttered something about confusticating dwarves, but decided that arguing with him wasn't going to get her the answer any faster. So she spent time with Tauriel and Kíli and their babies, swapped stories, ooh'd and aah'd over the furniture.

"You must be exhausted. Take your rest, and I'll see you again soon." Billa gave her nephew a hug and squeezed Tauriel's hand as she turned to go, shooing Fíli and Thorin out in front of her. 

Fíli and Ori disappeared into the room opposite, giggling like dwarrows, and Billa couldn't help but hide a grin as she watched them. Even if Thorin seemed a bit troubled. It couldn't be easy to accept, even after everything that had happened. His nephews were grown up and beginning their own families.

"Come on, love," she urged him finally. "I want to see the new crib. Where are you hiding it?"

Thorin gave her a maddeningly cryptic smile, but Billa found out why as soon as she'd set foot back in her chambers.

"Why you rascal!" she exclaimed, for the crib had already been brought, replacing the makeshift one they'd used, sporadically, the past few months. Nikû must've taken Dís to watch her in her own chambers, as the room was empty.

Thorin followed her inside and stood by the door, watching her run her hands over the gleaming, polished wood, carved and shaped, fitted with precision unlike anything she'd ever seen.

"Oh my." Billa had fancied her cousins on her mother's side were skillful carvers, the best in the Shire by repute, but even their work couldn't hold a candle to the piece before her.

"I'm having some other things made for you," Thorin said softly, obviously pleased by her reaction. "New bed, some tables and chairs.... It's taken me some time to finish the designs, but I gave them to the artisans last week."

Billa turned, overwhelmed. "This is... I mean, I don't even know what to say." She ran a hand across one of the carvings, tracing the tiny, detailed figure of an eagle soaring above the Carrock, one of several carrying dwarves, a Wizard, and a hobbit to safety.

"It's our journey. Parts of it, at least. And here," she poked at another little scene. "That's you. And me. When you were wounded at the burning cliffs where... where we fought the Pale Orc."

"Where you saved my life," Thorin corrected, gently.

Billa blushed a little. "You saved me a few times, too," she murmured, distracted by the intricacy of the work and the story it told. "Oh! Here's Laketown. That must be the feast." She laughed. "They even carved Fíli and Kíli, drunk under the table! And...." She trailed off, her eyes fixing on the carving beneath that one. "Oh. Ohhh." Her blush deepened, and she turned to see Thorin looking very self-conscious.

With a gratified chuckle, Billa looked back to the carving. "They didn't really get my hair right. I don't think it looked nearly that neat when we woke up that morning. But I  _ do _ remember you holding me that way."

She enjoyed seeing him blush. It was such a rare thing, and she couldn't recall anyone else succeeding at the task. It made her feel special.

"The artisans were very... thorough," he murmured, meeting her gaze only briefly before he looked away again.

"The artisans?" Billa's eyebrows lifted. "Or you?" The heat in her cheeks intensified at the idea of Thorin telling anyone else about their time in Laketown.

"I helped," he admitted, and extended a hand to her. Billa fit herself against his body and sighed, unsure whether to laugh or cry. The feelings were so intense that both reactions seemed equally likely.

She could smell him. A unique combination of forge-fire, leather, and ink nowadays. It was a comfortable scent. And the pot against the wall was still giving off its moist Spring earth smell, which just made everything better.

"When will the wedding be?" she murmured, and felt him pull her even closer.

"As soon as we can manage. A month from now, at the most." His beard tickled her ear.

A pleasant shiver thrilled down her spine, and she tilted her face up to kiss his scruffy neck. "Dís will be napping a while, I expect," the hobbit said, winking. "I know you have work, but... can you spare your wife an hour?"

Thorin hummed deep in his throat, seeming surprised. "Are you sure? You're still... recovering."

Billa waved a hand. "Stuff and nonsense. I've never felt better." She grinned, giving the thick braid of his beard a gentle, playful tug, knowing full well anyone else doing the same thing would've given him great offense. "Come on, you silly. You treat me like a... a piece of  _ crockery _ . I promise I won't break."

At first, she thought Thorin would refuse. He looked embarrassed and concerned, but there was a look in his eyes that told her he wouldn't. Then he kissed her, and her world was all whiskers and warm lips and his strong arms about her.

She was more disappointed than she wanted to admit when, next thing she knew, she was waking up from a completely unintentional nap to a summons for dinner. She had  _ intended _ to give Thorin a good reason to ignore the Healers for a while. Still recovering indeed! 


	44. Fíli; Grief and Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and Kíli deal begin the process of dealing with the death of their mother, among other things less emotionally taxing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, hi there, ho there, readers! You're as welcome as can be! After this chapter, there are only 3 more to go. Omigosh that's so exciting. 
> 
> Loki and I will most likely take a short hiatus, just to rest our writerly selves, but we hope to be back up and running again early next year. (We're already brainstorming our next stories, including some crossover mashups, Gigolas, time traveling, and much, much more.)

The sound of the fountain was like soothing music. But if the fountain soothed his mind, so too did the warmth of a hand in his own calm and soften his nerves. Fíli found muscles that had ached with tension since their parting had loosened at last. It left him feeling impossibly light and free.

His gaze lingered now over the stalls being set up, assembled by those interested in selling their wares to the crowds that would attend the coronation. Most were fitting together wooden frameworks cleverly crafted so no nail or screw was needed. But the sheer variety of folk was enough to stagger him.

Beards of black, brown, red, grey, and silver-white. One sweeping blond beard. Another dyed blue. Burly hands, gnarled hands, pale hands, callused hands. It seemed like an age since he'd seen such variety, though he remembered something of the kind in the early morning marketplace of Billa's little village, glimpsed on the way out of town.

He glanced sidelong at Ori, and found her gazing down at the floor with a worried expression on her round face.

"What's wrong?" He leaned toward her, the many hair beads he'd lately fashioned chiming merrily together like tiny bells, a thing they were both getting used to, and a source of much amusement. The shift in her countenance was very noticeable, as she'd lately been all smiles and laughter, open-hearted and carefree.

She looked at him and shrugged apologetically. "Nothing, love. Just... thinking." She glanced away evasively. Fíli shifted so as to recapture her gaze, a fondly disbelieving look on his face, and she giggled tensely.

"I was just thinking about the twins," she confessed at last. "I don't like to think that they might be... I don't know. Not mistreated, I guess, but disrespected. Because of their lineage." She gave him an 'I'm alright, really' smile, but it didn't make an impression on the worry in her eyes.

"What brought that on?" Fíli didn't like the idea of his niece and nephew being thought badly of, but he didn't think about it often.

"I... overheard a conversation that I probably shouldn't have, between a couple of the guards."

Fíli stiffened, overcome by sudden indignation. "What did they say about Kíli?" His tone was a knife's edge, and though he immediately regretted overreacting, he still wanted to know.

Ori shrank down into herself, as though the wrong was somehow her own. "They said... that your brother had been bewitched. That 'the elf' had put a spell on him. That the twins..." Here, she hesitated, looking and sounding as meek as a child. "That the twins might not even be his." She shook her head. "I wish I hadn't heard any of it. Now it's all I can think about."

Fíli felt a bubble of outrage swelling in his chest. Suddenly, the scene about them didn't seem half as cheerful as it had, and he turned his gaze on the dwarves erecting their stalls, wishing he had the guards that had spoken so in front of him right now. But no. Ori was already frightened, and he wouldn't want her to see what he would do to them.

"We know they're wrong. That's what counts." But he had every intention of speaking to his uncle about this.

"I know," said Ori softly. "It's just... unfair. It'll take some getting used to maybe. For some."

She reached up to play with one of Fíli's braids, tracing the runes etched in fine, tiny strokes around its silver bead.

"Even  _ you _ took some time to realize not all Elves are insufferable." She chuckled softly. 

Fíli nodded in begrudging agreement. "Aye. Still doesn't mean I have to like 'em all." He winked at her. "Gwinír was alright, when he finally came around. I can cut him a little slack. Must be difficult to be the younger brother of that poncy show-off."

"Legolas," supplied Ori. Then she looked very serious for a minute, but seemed to shake it off quickly enough. "Fee, do you think-"

"Your Highness!" A guard was striding swiftly toward them, and Ori fell silent as he approached. When he was near enough, the guard bowed. "The king requests your presence."

"Did he say what for?" Fíli asked, curious.

The guard shook his head. "No, Prince Fíli. He did not."

The blonde raised his eyebrows, glancing at Ori apologetically. "Sorry about this. Do you want me to walk you back to your room, or would you rather stay here?"

The dwarrowdam hesitated, but in the end, opted to stay and watch the vendors. Fíli felt guilty for leaving her, but reasoned they didn't exactly have to spend every waking moment together. A handful of minutes later, he knocked on the door of his uncle's study, and heard a tired-sounding voice issue in reply. The blonde entered, shutting the door behind him.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his mind spinning away like a top with the possibilities of death, disaster, and ruination that might be visited upon them all now that they'd just gotten settled in again.

Thorin was seated behind a sturdy oak table, papers and ledger books spread before him, lit by candles sputtering fitfully inside their glass-paned cages. Why his uncle preferred candle-light to lantern-light might've been attributed to a shortage of lamp oil at the moment, but that was to be remedied in the next supply shipment from the Iron Hills. 

"I wouldn't use the word 'wrong,' not after all we've seen.” Thorin looked up from his desk, and Fíli was relieved to see that while his uncle looked tired, he didn't have the haggard, tense look that had haunted him for so long. Thorin smiled a little, but it was a sad expression. "It was suggested that, since we're combining the coronation and multiple weddings already, we should include a ceremony for those who died, under Dain as well as in the battle with Saruman's forces."

Fíli understood then why he had been called. He was Dís' eldest son, and it was his duty to honor her name in such a ceremony. The need for a ceremonial mourning was rare among Dwarves, but it had happened now three times in Thorin's life, and Fíli imagined his uncle felt the weight of them more acutely than anyone could guess.

"I suppose it would be a relief, to get it out of the way all at once," Fíli agreed quietly.

In truth, he'd been distracted from it all of late. Maybe intentionally so. But it would be too hard to function as he must if he opened up to his grief.

Fíli glanced up. Thorin was still looking at him, somewhat expectantly. When his uncle next spoke, it was in a low, gentle tone. "Would you be willing to speak at the ceremony? As it is your right, I thought you might..." He trailed off, absently shifting some papers across his desk.

The blonde nodded mutely, afraid of what might escape his constricting throat.

"If it is too difficult for you," Thorin continued gently, "I am willing to speak on your behalf." He was being unusually sensitive, Fíli thought. Not that he minded. It was just surprising.

After a moment, during which Fíli swallowed several times, trying to clear his throat of the grief and the urge to cry, the blond shook his head. "I can do it." His voice was rough, but steady. "Mam would... expect it." Imagining his mother threatening him with revoking his forge privileges if he didn't make the stupid speech was comforting, in a painful sort of way.

Thorin made a soft humming sound. "She would say it was only proper."

"I'll need some time to compose it," Fíli said, tone flat, eyes focused but unseeing. "To make some sense of my thoughts."

Thorin nodded. "I've needed some time to think on it myself. I am the last of Thrain's children now." He fidgeted with the papers in his hands, as if to distract himself. "I looked to her for many things. She was strong, and never lost faith. Even... when I despaired." He sighed, shaking his head. "We will feel the loss severely in the years to come. You, your brother and I."

Fíli swallowed again and nodded, too overcome to form words for the moment. After a minute, he cleared his throat. "Was that... was that all?"

Thorin, seeming to understand, nodded. "You have two weeks. If you need help, let me know."

The blonde acknowledged with a nod, and turned to go. He was a little overwhelmed by the task he faced, but thought Ori might help him sort through his thoughts. He knew, vaguely, what he would say, but putting it into the words of solemnity the occasion demanded... that would be tricky.

He returned to the fountain, but Ori had gone. The place was still abuzz with excitement, but it held very little for him. The mood had been soured, at least for the time being.

When he got back to his room, he noticed Kíli walking down the hall, Tauriel conspicuously absent from his side. Figuring Ori would find him later, he jogged to catch up with his brother, who turned when he heard the heavy footfalls behind him.

"Hey, Fee. What's the matter?" 

The blond smiled a little, meeting his brother with an open hand. They clasped briefly, and Fíli took comfort in the strength of his brother's fingers. After a minute's silence, he sighed a little.

"Nothing new, really. Uncle's been pushed to include a memorial for the fallen with the celebration, and he asked me to speak." He didn't need to explain what about. He could tell by Kíli's expression that his brother already understood. 

Kíli put a hand on his brother's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Better you than me, Fee. I'm still too.... I'd probably forget everything I was supposed to say and...." He lowered his head a little, hiding his expression. "Anyway, I know you'll do Mam proud."

Fíli nodded, feeling distinctly that his brother gave him too much credit. There was a brief pause.

"You've... been to her resting place?"

"Not yet." Kíli looked up again, mingled uncertainty and shame in the tilt of his brows. "I know it'll do me good, give me closure. But the thing is, I don't want to have to admit it. That she's really... gone." His dark eyes glistened, and the younger dwarf looked away.

"Perhaps we can go together," Fíli suggested quietly, and this time it was his turn to put a hand on his brother's shoulder, bracing him. "Just you and me." It wasn't always easier to bear such loss, in company or out of it, but he had a feeling it might help.

The crypt, or the tombs, were on a lower level, far from the gleam of daylight or the smell of earth and wind. Some fumes from the forges drifted there, though by what paths, Fíli didn't rightly know. It was a wide, low-ceilinged gallery with intricately carved pillars and sparse, dim lanterns. The blond led the way with slow, solemn steps. The pillar nearest the tombs of Dís and Dain had been carved by Bofur, as Thorin had been injured, Fíli unwilling, and Glóin unsuited to the task. He paused to look at it, and reflected that the miner had some of his cousin's skill. Scenes of making had been chipped delicately out of the stone on all sides. Forging, building, raising young dwarrow. There were some untraditional scenes of simple home repair, and others of fine detail - a dwarf mending the crown with delicate strokes of a jeweler's hammer.

Fíli ran a hand over the sharp edges of the dark stone, then turned to the huge sarcophagus. It was plain and undecorated, and that in itself was a rebuke. It should have been richly decorated by her family, but they had been unprepared to perform the task. Fíli couldn't see himself ever being able to do it.

Kíli stood still, watching his brother's movements. It was as if he were in a trance, or very, very focused, his expression nearly unreadable in the dim light.

"I just... can't believe she's in there," the younger dwarf said at last.

Fíli sighed, settling onto a nearby stone slab, one meant to accommodate those here for contemplation and reverence. "I can't either. It's not..."  _ her _ . That was what he meant to say, though he wasn't sure if that would've made sense.

Kíli moved at last alongside the sarcophagus, brushing his hand over it gently, as his brother had. He lowered his head, his long fringe dropping in his eyes, and Fíli saw his shoulders shake in silent sobs, his hands fisting on the stone surface.

He sat quietly and let his brother mourn. This was important for both of them, processing what had happened. What had changed.

It was so much... bigger than losing their father and grandfather and uncle. Deeper, in so many ways. Harder to deal with. The loss of so much of their family had destabilized the world around them, made their footing uncertain. But losing Mam... it was like being turned to a hollow pillar of salt. Always looking back, never properly filled.

Fíli felt the hot tightness in his throat and knew that tears were imminent. He didn't try to stop them. Not this time. His mother was gone and he felt lost without her. No amount of stoicism would change that.

Lowering his head into his hands he shuddered, then pulled in a quick breath. Sobs came freely then, followed by a vague awareness of how miserable and broken he must've sounded in the echoing quiet of the space.

Next he knew, a warm presence sat beside him, and he was enveloped in strong, familiar arms. His brother was here. Kíli alone of his kin would share this particular grief, would walk this path with him. It was a comfort, however small.

"S-sorry," the blonde managed, trying to pull himself together. He did not succeed.

Kíli's chin rested on his left shoulder, and one arm curled around his right, holding him tightly, bracing him against the involuntary sobs wracking his body. His brother's breathing was steady next to his ear, though Fíli felt the tears through his shirt.

They sat like this a long while. Just how long, Fíli couldn't have said. The dim, faintly flickering light combined with the quiet and solemnity of the place, casting its spell over them, drawing them into its palpable reverence.

"I wish it hadn't happened the way it did," said Kíli at length, his tone thoughtful, but flat. "I know it's pointless to say, but... I wish I'd at least gotten to say goodbye. I never got to tell her, well,  _ anything _ I would've told her if I'd known. How it would end, I mean."

Fíli nodded. He understood. "But... it's Mam," he pointed out, his voice still thick in his throat. "She probably already knew whatever we would have said, anyway." Kíli was startled into a chuckle and gave his brother a squeeze.

The blond scrubbed his face with his sleeve. The sobbing had passed now, at least, and even if it still felt like there was a gaping hole in his chest, at least it didn't feel quite as raw.

"Do you think she met Durin? On the other side?" Kíli's question was so ridiculous that in a moment, they were both grinning at each other. 

"I'd say she's met everyone by now," Fíli speculated. "Probably even our father."

They were both quiet for a space, then Kíli made a thoughtful sound. "You know, it wasn't your letter that told me about Mam first."

Fíli looked up at that. "What do you mean?" Had someone else written to him before he'd had a chance? Didn't seem likely.

"When I was sick a few months back," Kíli explained, "there came a point that I got really weak. I kept hearing Elrond saying things like, 'He may be leaving us.' Only when he thought I was asleep, mind you."

Fíli shuddered at the thought. He couldn't imagine losing both his mother  _ and _ his brother. He hadn't realized just how serious Kíli's illness had been.

The younger dwarf went on. "Anyway, at one point, even I became convinced I was going. Hard as I fought, I knew I was too weak to fight much longer. It was claiming me.

"Then I heard a voice. Dark as the darkness around me, and deep as death. I knew who it belonged to, even if I couldn't see him. Saruman."

Fíli's mouth had gone dry, and he had to consciously remind himself that his brother was alright. He had recovered.

"What happened? I mean, what did he say? How did you beat him?"

The blonde felt Kíli shrug beside him. "I didn't really. He taunted me, said he'd already claimed someone dear. Or something like that. That I would follow." His voice sank to a tight whisper. "He meant Mam."

Fíli didn't know how to react. The circumstances surrounding Dis' death had been hazy enough. Thorin hadn't been particularly specific, and Dain ‘exploding’ didn't exactly sound reasonable, however much it might've felt like it to their uncle at the time.

"She was nothing to him. The Wizard. Just a pawn." The blonde scrubbed a hand over his face, as if wiping away a film that had settled over it. "Kuran - he's the one who pledged his service to me - he said she underestimated him. That she didn't realize until it was too late it wasn't Dain's work she was trying to undermine." He sighed. "I can't help but wish she hadn't... done what she did. But that's selfish of me. It would've run against all of who she was."

"What would you have done in her place?" His brother's words were hardly a whisper. Fíli had to think for a long time before he was ready to answer.

"I hope... I would do the same. Do everything I can to protect my people."

Kíli was quiet after that, though the silence had a certain resolved quality to it. Acceptance, healing. These things would take time, and would never be fully completed. But Fíli had an idea he was on the right track, at least.

"Let's go, Kee," the blonde said finally, tapping his brother's arm. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink and a warm fire about now."

"You think Tauriel's-"

"I'm sure she's fine," said Fíli, already up and a few strides away. "She's probably tired of having you around all the time anyway."

Kíli laughed at that. "I forgot how charming you are. Does Ori get tired of  _ you _ ?"

Fíli chuckled. "I don't know. Probably. She seemed pretty tired of me by the time we reached Rivendell with only Gwinír for company. But it's been awhile since then."

His brother was quiet again for a minute, and the blond wondered if maybe he'd overstepped. But when he glanced back at Kíli, he could see his little brother was smirking.

"She's been real good with the twins. Wouldn't surprise me if she decided pretty quick here that she wanted one of her own."

"Haha, don't even joke. Your kids are more than enough for the Mountain to handle without adding any progeny of mine. They'd tear this place apart between them!"

They were both laughing now, and it relieved some of the pressure in Fíli's chest.

It wasn't long before the two had made their way out of the crypt again, out into the well-lit passages leading to the dining hall. Fíli felt different, somehow. More at peace, maybe. He scrubbed a hand over his face to clear the last traces of tears from his cheeks. There would be more time to grieve for those who had been lost, but time there was also to celebrate those who had lived, against all odds. Those who had been joyfully reunited. The brothers had been through much since they'd left the Blue Mountains, and could hardly be said to resemble who they were before.

Fíli was reminded of this again as the two filled their drinks and sat near the fire. The blonde studied Kíli's face in the warm, golden light. It wasn't that he'd  _ aged _ , per se, though he did seem a little older. But there was a different weight to his features now, the way he carried himself. Grief, maybe, but also the wisdom of experience, the embracing of responsibility. His brother was a husband now, and a father twice over.

Even Fíli couldn't imagine what that must be like.

"What's on your mind, Fee?" Kíli asked, which forced the blonde to evaluate just how long he'd been staring. Kíli winked. "Or are you just admiring my good looks?"

"Oh, yeah. Don't you know I've always wanted a beard like yours?" Fíli reached over and tweaked the short braids of his brother's thickening beard. "Makes me practically jealous." Still, there was some merit to it. It was the beard and the eyes, that's where the impression of age came from. "I was just thinking how much we changed since we left Ered Luin."

"So long ago," said Kíli dreamily, shaking his head. "And neither of us had any idea what we were in for. We were a team, and that was that." He took a draught of ale, smiling at his brother.

"Just you and me," said Fíli, a bit wistful now that he recalled their lives before. "Things were so much... simpler. It was all fun and adventure."

Kíli chuckled appreciatively. "Aye. There was a time I thought I'd be the one to fell Smaug. Why do you think I spent so many hours practicing with my bow?"

Fíli raised his eyebrows. "Really? I thought it was so you could impress that 'dam you had an eye on. What was her name again? Iska? Iske?"

Kíli blushed noticeably, trying to hide his face in his flagon. "Ishka."

"She wouldn't have had anything to do with you, anyway," Fíli pointed out with a wink. "She was after me from the start. Had to find ways to avoid her when she proved too eager. I think I remember hiding in the stables once."

The blonde felt a sharp kick to his ankle and winced.

"Hey!"

"You said she fancied me!" said Kíli accusingly, and for a moment he looked like he was actually angry.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," muttered Fíli, rubbing his ankle regretfully. "Besides, I think you ended up with a better gal than what's-her-face, anyway. Tauriel's a better match for you."

That seemed to placate his brother. "You're right about that," Kíli said, and laughed, which seemed to quite settle the matter.

The fire was crackling merrily, the dining hall buzzed with the low murmur of a few scattered patrons' conversation, and the ale thoroughly warmed and relaxed the two as they smiled, sharing in a long-denied feeling of well-being. They were home, their uncle would finally take the throne, and all was looking to be better from here on out.

Then Fíli remembered something. With a groan, he shoved his mug aside and half-collapsed onto the table. The action proved more comically dramatic than he'd intended, and Kíli snickered at him.

"Had too much, Fee?"

The blonde flapped a hand at him weakly. "No. Just don't want to write a speech."

Kíli's barely-muffled giggles did nothing to help the speech-writing problem go away, but it did improve his opinion on the subject somewhat. In fact... it gave him an idea. He smiled, lifting his head a little to look at his brother.

"It was a terrible idea, this speech-making nonsense, but... do you remember that time that Mam had to talk to the Trade Council back in Ered Luin?"

"Yeah." Kíli grinned, almost misty-eyed. "She called them a rusted armory with polished doors. Made 'em angry as a stuck dragon."

"But she made them laugh, too." Fíli and Kíli hadn't been present, of course, but Dís had told the story more than once. By her telling, three out of the twelve councilors had been in stitches, while the rest of them were either confused or murderous. She'd gotten what she needed from them, though.

"So you're planning to insult your audience and hope it turns out?" Kíli's expression was a mixture of entertainment and apprehension, and it was clear he was wondering if his brother really  _ had _ taken a little too much ale.

"No. I want to remember the times she made us laugh. It'll make writing a memorial easier, I think."

Kíli nodded. "Bit less intimidating, yeah."

Ten minutes of welcome reminiscing turned to twenty, which turned to thirty, and Fíli thought he'd probably come up with enough suitable anecdotes to form his memorial a dozen times over. Perhaps their mother wouldn't have approved of a couple of them, but then, Dís had never seen herself as particularly humorous.

The two of them might've gone on talking all night, ever one-upping each other in their usual style, if their beloved wives hadn't suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Ori seemed more concerned than Tauriel, but Fíli didn't fancy himself all that skilled at reading elven faces.

"I told you they'd be together," said the she-elf, crossing the room toward their table. "Now we know they haven't fallen into an abandoned mineshaft, as  _ someone _ suggested." She glanced at her female companion, who looked slightly embarrassed. "Shall we leave you two to talk?"

Kíli sprang to his feet with more energy than was really necessary, spreading his arms with a smile. If there were words to accompany the enthusiastic hug that followed, they were incomprehensible. Fíli chuckled, finished his ale and stood.

"I think we're just about done. Anyway, I should get to work if I'm going to get this finished tonight."

"Get what finished?" Ori still looked a little flustered, but extended her hand to him as he joined her. The blond took it, and the warmth of her fingers was like magic to him, easing tension in his chest.

"Uncle asked me to speak a few words for Mam at the memorial." It was easier to say now. "I want to get the speech written out before I have too much time to think about it." Beside them, Kíli was still laughing.

"Sorry for disappearing," Kíli said with a wink. "Got a little caught up in storytelling."

"You don't need to apologize." Tauriel smiled gently as the two parted embrace. "I was hoping you were with your brother. It's been a long time."

"How are the twins?" Kíli took his wife's hand.

The she-elf's smile broadened. "Enjoying a new bounty of braids, courtesy of their nurse. She's a long-suffering sort, Valar be thanked."

Fíli grinned. "She'd have to be. They're half my brother, after all." It reminded him of his conversation with Ori that morning, and he saw his One beamed with pride as she felt the same.

Tauriel surprised him with a burst of laughter, clear and bright as music. "I'm sure he's not the only one to blame. My folk have informed me I'm altogether too, well,  _ feisty _ . Among other things."

"Not the word I would have used," said Fíli, trying to imagine who would have the guts to tell Tauriel she was 'feisty.' His brother chuckled.

As Tauriel and Kíli spoke, their hands twined together, and Ori's broad hand slipped quietly around Fíli's arm. They strolled back to their individual rooms, walking slowly and comfortably, without any need before or behind to make them hurry.

Once safely back in their chambers, Fíli collapsed into a chair. He was warm and relaxed now, and the only thing keeping him from sleep was the nagging reminder of the task before him. Finish it now, and have two weeks to ignore it before the ceremony. Ori sat in the chair opposite, and the room was very quiet. It stayed that way a good handful of minutes before curiosity tempted Fíli enough to pry open an eye. He was so used to hearing Ori's needles clicking away that the absence of their constant rhythm now seemed odd.

The mystery was solved when he saw what his wife was doing.

"Are you... drawing me?"

Ori looked up quickly from what seemed to be a small, leather-bound journal, her expression sheepish. A thin stick of charcoal wrapped in twine betrayed her, even as she tried to tuck it away.

"I, uh..." She giggled nervously. "I might be."

"Can I see?" Fíli sat up, interested, and saw Ori hug the journal to her chest shaking her head. There was an almost impish glitter in her round eyes as she answered.

"Not until you finish what you need to do."

"Cruel," he muttered, but smiled. It was fair motivation, and he thought it just might work. With a yawn, he stood and gathered paper, pen, and ink so he might at least make a start. He was surprised how fast it came to him, the writing. Maybe it was because he was able to draw from much of the material discussed with his brother, or maybe it was because his emotions concerning the whole thing were less tightly wound. Perhaps both. For whatever reason, it was less than an hour later that he had his rough draft, which he clutched proudly in his hand as he presented it to Ori.

"Done. More or less. I expect my reward." He grinned, indicating her journal.

Ori traded him, the journal for the speech, though she looked embarrassed about it. Fíli was much more interested in seeing this drawing than in her possibly unflattering reaction to his writing. The first several pages of the journal were filled with varying styles of Elvish characters and Dwarvish runes, and he looked with fascination from one page to the next as his One blended the two in meaning and form so she might write both quickly and well. Her hand was bold and flowing, with thick lines that made the characters easy to read. Then he came across sketches. Of fire, of carvings, of tiny, swaddled infants. One of Tauriel. One of Tauriel and Kíli. Rough and vague, but definitely them. More writing. A journal entry, this time, and he politely skipped over it.

Then he found the marked page which bore the sketch of himself. He saw that the greatest detail was focused on his hair. The number and position of his braids, the style of his beard. His facial features were vague, and his body was a roughly sketched sprawl. He smiled, touching the paper gently.

"It still needs work." Ori's tone was apologetic, and he looked up at her, only to realize she wasn't talking about the sketch. She had the charcoal in her hand again, and she was crossing out lines from his speech, jotting notes in the margins and chewing her lower lip thoughtfully.

Fíli's brow creased a little, and he tried not to take offense. " 'Perfection is a taskmaster who can never be pleased.' That's what one of my tutors used to say, anyway."

"You have a good start, love." Ori's tone was conciliatory. "Just needs some polishing."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," said Fíli, turning his glance again upon the drawing. He studied it quietly, admiring the obvious skill, despite the ample use of suggestion in the style. Dori and Ori were both very gifted. He found himself wondering if Nori had had any hidden talents. Besides thieving.

He drifted away on his train of thought, something he found himself doing often while fighting sleep. He might've gone to bed, but it didn't seem right to leave Ori working while he rested. Staying in the chair, even if he was mostly asleep, was more... non-committal.

"Done!" Ori's triumphant exclamation startled him awake, and he realized with some amount of embarrassment he'd actually fallen asleep and had probably been asleep for some time. The blonde sat up, trying not to yawn as he stretched his arms and back to work the kinks out. 

"You didn't have to do that." He wasn't even sure what it was he was telling her she didn't have to do. On the table in front of her were two rolls of paper, one with his spiky writing and the other covered in neat lines of Ori's curvy script.

"I like being useful," said Ori quietly, smiling. "This is something I'm good at."

"Can't argue with that." Fíli scooted his chair closer to her, leaning over the desk. He struggled in vain to read the page upside down, mostly because he knew she'd find it amusing.

As he'd hoped, Ori giggled, turning the paper the proper way around for him.

Pillowing his chin on the back of his hand, he read through the revised version, impressed with how Ori had somehow managed to take his rambling style and refine it into something precise and polished.

After he'd finished, he looked up. "Next time, I'll have you write the whole thing. Save us both some time." He winked at her cheekily.

Ori blushed, and it was satisfying to see, even though she looked away from him. Clearing the table, she stood and stretched. "Let's sleep, Fee." The blond put an arm around her, more than willing to acquiesce.

The days until the wedding seemed to run by like a swift stream, hardly pausing in their mad rush. At the same time, it was like the wait was never-ending. By the time that Fíli woke to the morning of the feast day, he was both excited and exhausted. Kíli materialized out of the stone at his bedside, flushed and quivering with excitement.

"Today's the day!" he said in a hushed tone that didn't at all conceal his grin. "It'll be official after this. Really, truly real."

Fíli rolled over with a groan. "You tell me this like I don't already know."

"I know you know," said Kíli, and sat on him.

"Kee!" Fíli swatted at his brother half-heartedly, unable to contain a breathless laugh. "You're heavier than you look, but don't tempt me. I'll crush you."

"Go on, then." Kíli giggled, pinning Fíli's arms. "It's been awhile since we wrestled. You might be surprised."

"Is that so?"

"Boys," said Tauriel, leaning in the open doorway, one of her shapely eyebrows raised in amusement.

Kíli laughed again, rolling off his brother. "We'll save it for later, Fee. This isn't over."

"Have they always been this bad?" Fíli heard the elleth ask someone out in the hallway.

"Worse," Thorin's voice rose in reply, followed by Billa's distinct chuckle.

Fíli got out of bed and pulled on a tunic, glancing around the room. There were two beds in it; one for him and the other for Ori. He'd extracted a promise from his uncle that after the wedding, they would replace these two small beds with one larger one, like the one that Kíli shared with Tauriel. Not that he was jealous, or anything. Of course not.

But currently, Ori's bed was empty and neatly made. She had apparently gotten up before him, which wasn't altogether unusual. "You seen Ori?" he asked distractedly, and Kíli laughed.

"Told you! I knew he'd ask about her right off."

Tauriel looked around the door again as Kíli crowed his triumph, and smiled. "Alright, you two. Come on. Fee, Ori is at breakfast already. Dori's helping her get ready today." It was traditional for the bride and groom to be prepared for the ceremony by their respective families, so this made sense, but Fíli felt a mild twinge of regret at not having the chance to say "good morning" before they were whisked apart.

Breakfast was light, and understandably so. On a feast day, no one wanted his appetite spoiled for the main meal. Even if it was several hours away.

Fíli finished his porridge quickly, and was then ushered away with Kíli to be "made ready." He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, but he figured it couldn't be that bad.

Kíli grinned at his apprehensive look as they moved down the hall. "It's alright, Fee. I'd expect only a small amount of pain."

"As long as  _ you _ have to endure it, too, I won't complain." Fíli patted his brother's head teasingly. "They'll have a lot more work to do in your case." 

Kíli laughed, and swung into a smallish chamber off the royal wing. There was Thorin, inspecting three soft dummies wearing the richest sets of clothes Fíli had ever seen. There, too, was young Gimli, tending to the fire and a pot of steaming water. As they entered, Gloin's son sprinkled a handful of mint leaves into the water and straightened.

"I'm here to help ya get ready," he said in response to Fíli's curious look. Kíli was giving their uncle a hug, and Thorin gave them a smile.

"Your mother should have been here to make you presentable. Mahal knows she'd roll over in her tomb if she knew preparations for your wedding day were in my hands. But since we're family, we'll be getting ready together." Thorin paused a little, rolling his eyes expressively. "Dori made our clothes. All we need to do is wash up, freshen up our braids, and get dressed. Think you boys can handle that?" 

" _ I _ can," said Fíli. "Not sure about this one, though." He gave his brother's shin a nudge with his boot, and Kíli made a face at him.

"I don't know, Fee. When we were youngsters, you couldn't take a bath without your toy boat. Maybe you still need it?"

Fíli laughed, caught off guard by the memory. "This from the lad who used to foam the soap and wear it as a beard. Dreaming of the day his real one might be so glorious, no doubt."

"That's quite enough," said Thorin, lowering his chin to hide an obvious smile. "Into the tub with you both, or I'll throw you in myself, since your Mam's not here to do it." 

As it happened, all three of them ended up "thrown" into the tub, one after another, simply because it was fun, and they hadn't had a chance for this kind of rough-and-tumble bonding in more years than even Kíli wanted to remember. When they were finally done and drying off, and Gimli was mopping up the water splashed on the floor, Fíli asked the question that had been niggling at the back of his mind.

"Dori is helping Ori get ready, but what about Tauriel and Billa?"

"They're helping each other," said Kíli cheerfully. "Since neither of them have family to speak of, it's only fair that they can be family for each other." 

"Sounds reasonable." Fíli slipped into the fine clothes Dori had made, buttoning and tying all the various closures that were much too decorative to be practical for ordinary use. His tunic was particularly ornate, green suede fastened down the front with silver clasps.

"Looks good, Fee," Kíli commented, raising his dark brows in admiration. "The clothes, I mean. Your hair needs work."

"So does yours." Fíli smirked. "Here, we'll trade. Come here."

"No jokes, brother." Kíli eyed him suspiciously. "You remember how long it took me last time to get the knots out of all my braids."

"No jokes," promised Fíli, though he was still smirking. "I wouldn't do a thing like that when our wedding is later today. Maybe after the wedding was done, but not before it started." He gave his brother a wink, and Kíli laughed nervously.

"Uncle, will you be joining us? I can do yours while Fíli does mine."

Thorin was finishing with the buttons and fastens and ties, all far too elaborate for his taste, but moved over to join his nephews. "As long as you two are willing to extend the truce to last until tomorrow, then I suppose it's safe." 

Kíli grinned, obviously excited by the prospect. It reminded Fíli of their times doing the same thing as youngsters, coercing their uncle or Mam to join the "braiding circle." Such things made sense when plaits became part of the daily routine.

"How many do you want, Kee?"

"As long as my hair doesn't end up looking like a basket... whatever you think. Use your judgement." Kíli chuckled over his shoulder as his brother began to run his hands through his hair. It had a nice texture to it, Fíli observed. Easier to braid than Ori's.

In a trice, Kíli's was done, a few scattered braids bare of beads nestled behind his ears, and one very wide braid comprised of the excess hair on the top and sides of his head. Then they traded, Kíli completing his brother's preferred braids with a swiftness that reminded them of the years in which they had done this for each other every day. Finally, the two brothers descended upon their uncle, perhaps slightly over-engineering his hair.

Thorin glanced at the mirror and frowned. "I look like my grandfather," he said, which was a statement of dubious intent. Fíli couldn't decide whether Thorin lamented the thought or found it amusing. "Billa probably won't recognize me."

"Now you're just being silly," said Kíli, securing the last braid. "I think you look very... regal."

"I think you look like a king," agreed Fíli quietly. Thorin glanced at him with an unreadable expression, then smiled faintly. The words had been well spoken. It made him feel good to know that his uncle didn't dislike the style they'd chosen for his coronation/memorial/wedding feast.

Gimli, by the door, cleared his throat slightly. "It's time," he said importantly, and gave him a grin through his ruddy beard. "Good luck, Your Majesties." 

Fíli's heart thudded loudly in his chest as the three moved purposefully out into the corridor. Many long and arduous trials had led to this moment, many lingering nights of fear and uncertainty. He wasn't sure why  _ now _ of all times, he felt so nervous. His dedication was carefully rolled, tucked into his pocket until it would be needed. He'd gone over it a dozen times since dinner the previous night, and was confident he could read it out without faltering. Still, he wasn't sure how his resolve would hold when he stood before a hall bursting at the seams with silent, expectant people. He'd have to stay the course. Somehow. His mother deserved every ounce of effort he could give, and more.

"You'll do fine, Fee." Kíli smiled reassuringly, jostling his shoulder. The expression quickly shifted into mock seriousness. "But if you faint, l'll try to catch you. No guarantees, though."

Fíli turned to deliver a stinging retort, but Thorin made a noise in his throat that made him think twice about it. Gimli was standing by the door to the Feast Hall, ready to open it for them.

It was time.


	45. Dwalin; Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Durin Weddings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Somehow, I forgot to post this chapter. Not sure how, but I did. Allow me to correct myself.

"She was a leader and a teacher. To me, to my brother, to her people. May her memory never fade." As Fíli lowered his head and bowed, there was a murmur from the audience. In words blurred by countless voices, the dwarves of Erebor responded as one:

"We will remember."

Tears trickled into many beards, silent and unashamed. Even Fíli, as he stepped back, wore the stain of tears on his cheeks. Dwalin shivered and looked away. He still felt, in a deep part of himself, that if he had done something differently, then perhaps there would be more of Durin's folk here now. More of the royal family. A tiny hand patted his beard, and he looked down into the round, alert face of the infant princess. She was his charge until the ceremony was over. 

The duty was one he embraced, even as he tried to dismiss nagging thoughts that he'd been reduced to a nanny. It was an honor to serve his king in whatever capacity he required.

Fíli's speech had been a good one, powerfully moving, and a fitting tribute to the daughter of Thrain. Dwalin looked into the infant's eyes - this tiny babe named for Dís - and he knew. There was no mistaking she was of the same stock. He would protect her surely as he would Thorin, or any of the rest of his kin. Even those who weren't dwarves.

Little Dís cooed happily, as if she guessed his thoughts. For reasons he couldn't comprehend, she liked him. Didn't seem intimidated by him in the slightest. Her hand on his beard strayed to the trailing braid of his hair where it rested on his shoulder, her fingers curling around it. Around the single, finely crafted bead adorning it. Her face brightened in delight, and Dwalin rolled his eyes.

"Ye Durins and yer shiny things," he muttered, turning his attention back to the ceremony.

Fíli and Balin were standing on either side of an enormous drum. It was large enough that three dwarves could have comfortably slept inside it (though if anyone tried, Niku might have torn them to pieces, as she had spent close to three weeks making it). Balin spoke in a somber tone as he and Fíli took turns beating the drum with short, padded clubs. The notes rolled through the hall like slow, rhythmic thunder.

"We acknowledge their deaths."

Boom.

"We remember their names."

Boom.

"We honor their deeds."

Boom.

"We forgive their debts."

Boom.

"We support their families."

Boom.

"We will not forget."

Boom.

The drum beats slowed, softened, and eventually, stopped. Like a heartbeat. Like all their heartbeats. Dwalin sensed more than heard the tears flowing on many faces. No one spoke. For almost three minutes, the silence was absolute. Then Balin stepped forward, holding the tiny mithril anvil that had so distressed Dís weeks ago. The infant's mouth was full of braid and bead at the moment, so she hardly seemed to notice as Dwalin covered her ears.

"We came not only to mourn, but to celebrate. For today, we bring together not one, but three royal couples. May they live long and bear many children!"

"Hear, hear!" rumbled the audience, and Balin struck the anvil with his jeweler's hammer once, twice, thrice. The high, clear note was as different from the drum as a daffodil from a mountain. A weight seemed to lift from all of them.

As the couples moved forward, the crowd stirred and murmured. Thorin and his burglar came first, the top of her curly head just reaching his shoulder. Next, Fíli and Ori, clasping hands and striding slowly in step. Finally, and causing the most mutterings, Kíli and Tauriel. Each female was clad in a different style, reflecting her heritage, and each male wore complimentary colors in the traditional dwarven fashion. Dori had done very well. Each couple was perfectly balanced, in spite of their differences, and even Dwalin could appreciate the effect. 

Billa was a creature of flowers. Flowers in her hair, flowers on her gown, flowers around her wrists and even around her ankles, exposed below the hem of her skirt. She wore pale blue, a counterpart to Thorin's midnight robes.

Ori was clad in dwarven robes in green, which started emerald at her shoulders and darkened to black at the hem, embroidered with her family's design around the borders. Beside her in robes that exposed his polished leather armor below, Fíli was dressed in similar fashion, solid forest green embroidered in silver.

Kíli's robes were dark, stormy grey, embroidered in white. It was an odd combination, but worked well. And beside him, statuesque in bright silver, Tauriel held one of his hands. Her hair was elaborately braided, and seemed to be wound with threads of silver. The effect was striking, giving her an air of wisdom. 

All had to acknowledge the rarity of the three unions before them, bringing together the dwarven, elven, and halfling races in a way that was sure to benefit all. Even if it took some getting used to.

As silence fell again, the marriage rites began in their full solemnity, vows in words of forgecraft, oaths cherished time out of mind amongst dwarves from every corner of Middle-earth.

In fact, the only difference Dwalin noticed right off came during the customary exchange of gifts. Every dwarf had seen a husband present his bride with a bejeweled headdress, or a bride offer her husband a fine axe or tool. But no such objects were forthcoming.

Dwalin suspected at least in two of the cases, it was because neither the halfling nor the elf were makers, nor skilled in traditional craft.

As Kíli and Tauriel stepped forward to exchange, Dwalin found himself squinting at them searchingly, wondering if they had smaller gifts hidden on their persons. But none was revealed.

Instead, Kíli turned to the elf, gazing up into her expectant face and looking a little nervous.

"I, uh... I was asked to present a gift worthy of my bride." Kíli's voice was soft, but clearly heard in the absolute silence of the hall. "But I must confess... the works of my hands fail to approach the loyalty and sacrifice gifted to me, dedication and selflessness I can't begin to deserve." He leaned down, lifting one of her slender hands to his lips. The elf smiled, her cheeks coloring slightly as she strove to maintain composure.

Kíli straightened again, seeking her gaze once more. "I'm afraid the only thing I have to offer you, my love, is this simple verse I wrote not long after I recovered from my illness. It is neither gold nor silver, nor precious gem of any sort. But perhaps it's like the starlight you spoke of so long ago: steady, honest, and pure."

He was holding both her hands now, and Dwalin noted that he didn't pull out a piece of paper, or even look away from her face as he started to recite, almost chanting the words in the somber, dwarven fashion.

_ Hearing voices dark and fell _

_ In places where the Shadows dwell, _

_ Wand'ring in unnatural night, _

_ Recalling neither warmth nor light. _

 

_ Locked in body, trapped in mind _

_ Lost in thoughts I could not find _

_ Upon my face, a single tear _

_ As ripples in the Mirrormere. _

 

_ Darkness broken, light return _

_ Hair like fire, eyes that burn _

_ Hands that hold, words defend _

_ Dearest heart, we shall not end. _

 

_ Stronger than Starlight _

_ Brighter than Steel _

_ Softer than Nighttime _

_ For you, love, I kneel. _

By the time he finished, there were murmurs of appreciation around the hall, and Tauriel's cheeks were quite red. From the way she looked down at him and shifted her weight, Dwalin guessed (he could never be really certain with those female types, elf or otherwise) that she was embarrassed. After an appropriate pause, the elf reached into a pouch she wore on her silver belt. From the pouch, she drew... a spark of light. It was startling, even in the well-lit hall. As he looked at it longer, Dwalin saw that it was a stone set in silver. A broach, maybe, or a buckle of some sort.

"For you, dear one," she said quietly, and her voice carried clearly over the murmurs of the audience, "I made this broach. In it is the light of the harvest moon, trustworthy and strong. Like you." 

Kíli took it in his hand, turning it over, running two fingers across the smooth, gleaming surface.

"Moonstone," Dwalin murmured, finally identifying what it had to be. An opal by family, but less fiery than its more well-known counterpart. Still, by the glow of the stone, there seemed to be some enchantment on it beyond its natural properties. Even at this distance, the gem was white and incredibly luminous.

Kíli's face was filled with awe, the glow lighting his features surely as moonlight on water. "Tauriel... you  _ made _ this?"

Tauriel nodded slowly. "The wise among my kind have long known the skill of capturing the light of sun, moon, and stars in stones." There was a slight pause, while the dwarves gazed in wonder at the broach in Kíli's hands. "The metalwork was more difficult, I think. I am no silversmith."

Kíli examined the broach more closely, then nodded approvingly. "You give yourself no credit. This is fine work."

The assembly murmured in surprise, clearly impressed by the elf's skill. To imbue a stone with an inner light was by no means a common talent, and perhaps the one making art in which Elves held a clear advantage.

Kíli fastened the broach over the draping folds of his grey cloak, and the two turned, hand in hand, to make way for Fíli and Ori.

Fíli signaled someone out of the audience's sight, and a moment later, Gimli appeared, carrying a sizable object draped in velvet.

"My gift to you, my lovely Ori, is something you once said you missed. Something you wondered if we would ever have again." The blond lifted the velvet from the object, revealing a finely carved fiddle and bow.

"It's been a fair while since I played often, but music was always a part of our life in the Blue Mountains. I wrote this song for you while you were in Rivendell. It's not much, but... I knew you'd appreciate it." He smiled. "More than another set of needles, anyway."

With that, Fíli positioned the fiddle, lifted the bow, and began to play.

Ori actually hid her face in her hands. She was blushing furiously and smiling so wide it looked like she might split at the ears as she peeked over her fingers at her One. The melody was lively, and one of the dwarrow near the edge of the audience actually began to dance, though he was quickly scooped up by a mother, who probably thought it unseemly.

Dwalin was distracted from the proceedings at this point by Dís, as she needed to be changed (much to the warrior's displeasure). He took her aside into a tiny room cleared for this purpose, and blessed the infant's namesake for forcing him to do this very same chore for her boys when Thorin was unable to do so. By the time that was finished and Dís was settled again, Dwalin had missed Ori's gift to her husband. It must have been a comic rhyme or something to that effect, because Fíli was actually sitting on the stage, clutching his ribs and laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. He wasn't the only one, either. Most of the audience was in stitches. Dwalin grumbled a little, but hefted little Dís against his shoulder and resumed his position near the stage, where he could keep an eye on the rest of the royals. Near at hand, he spotted Niku, and they exchanged nods. There was a curiously lively twinkle in her eyes, but she said nothing.

It was clear she'd noticed the bead he wore, though he had a feeling neither of them would address it, now or in future. It just  _ was _ . That was that. He'd given his answer, and their bond - whatever it might be - was understood.

Thorin and Billa were moving now to take the position that Fíli and Ori were relinquishing. Dwalin had a notion of what Thorin's gift would be, unless he'd changed his mind since confiding in him some days before.

The sound of something heavy being carted or wheeled drew the assembly's attention, and the source was soon revealed. Two dwarves Dwalin recognized as personal assistants to Thorin were moving a very large, golden harp through the door behind the dais, which they efficiently conveyed to where their king was standing before withdrawing once more.

Thorin smiled at Billa, who seemed a bit surprised. "This harp belonged to my sister. A gift from Dain. I would that its strings do not remain still now that all she fought to achieve has been realized."

These words were for all, maybe. The entire assembly. What he said next was clearly just for Billa.

"But even were it not so, your love is reason enough. Erebor owes you a great debt... but greater still is the debt of its king."

Billa's handkerchief, Dwalin noticed, was poised in waiting, though the hobbit looked radiantly happy. The hulking dwarf decided he might never understand females of the overly sensitive sort.

Thorin brushed a hand across the hobbit's cheek, a tender gesture matched in the tone of the words that followed. This was hard, Dwalin knew. Thorin had never been particularly comfortable with public displays of affection.

"My gift to you, Billa, is simply this. It is little enough, and humble, but I have learned much from you. Food, song, and cheer sustain the heart and soul more and better than any trinket made of metal." Thorin set his shoulder to the back of the instrument, running his fingers gently across the strings on both sides, as though in testing. Apparently striking one in such a way that pained his own ears, he winced, smiling self-consciously at Billa. "You'll have to forgive me. It has been... many years since I've played."

Dwalin mentally scolded Thorin for revealing a mistake no one else would've noticed. Dís yawned sleepily in his arms, apparently no longer interested in all the excitement, her eyelids drooping as he bounced her gently on his shoulder. This was, as far as Dwalin was concerned, a good thing. Sleeping babies made no mischief.

The music that flowed through the hall was as old as the kingdom itself and as familiar. More than one dwarf in the audience hummed along with the melody, remembering old words and old hopes. Dwalin could see a wistful expression on Balin's face from where he stood, and imagined his brother was remembering the wife he'd lost in the Desolation. She had liked music, too.

Then, Billa began to sing.

Her voice was high and clear, soaring through the air and cutting through the lower sounds of dwarves, which faded away as she put new words to a tune they all knew. 

_ Sunrise, morning's bloom, start of all things new. _

_ Strike a match, make a spark, lighting me and you. _

_ Speak of binding, living, holding, hearts at ease, at rest. _

_ Think on home, on family, think on what comes next. _

_ Life of service, life of love, footsteps guiding little ones. _

_ Tears of joy, tears of pain, broken lives made whole again. _

_ Love for the heart, like seeds for the earth, bring forth fruit in time. _

_ Forget me not, keep me close, my love for yours, yours for mine. _

When the song had ended, Thorin's fingers plucking out the final, slightly melancholy notes of the old tune, the silence that fell seemed different. As if the air could somehow be full of light and hope and memory. The assembly was still, and Dwalin had the impression no one wanted to break the spell.

Then Thorin stood, signaling for the harp to be taken away. As this was done, Dwalin noticed a glistening in his king's eyes. He was clearly very moved, as were they all.

Dís was now soundly asleep on her protector's shoulder, and Dwalin swayed gently, doing his all to keep her that way. If she slept through the rest of the ceremony, he'd consider himself lucky.

The three couples lined up again, and Balin stepped forward with the little anvil. Dwalin realized what was about to happen less than a second before the high, pure note rang through the hall. Dís woke with a squall of protest and Dwalin hastily covered her ears, bouncing her in one arm as he tried to calm her again.

Except for a flash of the halfling's eyes from the stage, none of the royals seemed to notice the noise. The mithril anvil rang out twice more, and swelling from the audience like a wave rolling up out of the ocean, came the words of blessing from their people, words as old as the mountain itself.

"May your family be as stone, never broken, never forgotten."

Each male brought out a single gold bead. Ceremonial, of course. Their true marriage beads would be gifted in private. He threaded the bead into his mate's hair near the left ear. Then the females did the same.

Suddenly, Billa threw herself into Thorin's arms and kissed him soundly. The dwarves in the crowd were startled. Some whispered darkly, but most seemed amused. The younger members of the audience laughed.

Dís squeaked when her guardian was pulled about by the arm. He braced himself for a fight, but saw it was only Niku. She was smiling. He thought this very odd in the half second or so before she kissed him without so much as a 'by your leave.' 

Dwalin was too caught off guard for any real annoyance to register properly, and anyway, by the time she'd moved off again into the crowd, he decided he didn't really mind.

He turned back to the dais in time to catch a fondly overwhelmed look on Thorin's face, while Fíli and Kíli laughed and turned their attention back to their respective brides. The grumblers in the crowd had ceased, or been overpowered by good-natured laughter and cheering, and Billa smiled and blushed and dabbed at tears, obviously delighted by Thorin's reaction.

It was Fíli that stepped forward, grinning. "Formalities aside," he said in a strong, ringing voice, "let the Feast begin!" The guards at the doors threw them wide and the delicious odors of malt beer, roast meats, fresh bread, and other savory delights wafted into the hall. The audience cheered and began immediately to break up, some to fetch food, others to bring in tables and benches, and still others to open doors into the side halls. The population of Erebor was too great to eat together in the Feast Hall, but their forebears had known how to deal with this, carving out smaller halls to the side so they might accommodate as many as five thousands of hardy warriors at a time, and have them seated comfortably to boot.

Billa sprang down from the stage to reclaim her daughter, who was now awake and squirming in Dwalin's arms. Though he was proud of his position as their caretaker, he was more than willing to give up the youngest Durin to her mother. 

Having surrendered his burden, Dwalin glanced searchingly for a certain dwarrowdam, and coming up empty, he decided to find somewhere convenient to sit. His leg might've been sounder than it had been in months, but he couldn't stand on it indefinitely. It was already beginning to cramp a bit.

"Come on, Brother!" Balin appeared out of the crowd, his ruddy face beaming with joy. "You're wanted at the King's Table, so don't you think about disappearing quietly."

Dwalin opened his mouth to protest, but Balin was too quick. "We've waited so long for this moment. It's... it's... I can hardly believe it's real." The older dwarf grasped his brother's shoulder bracingly, his eyes taking on that watery sort of sheen Dwalin had learned to fear.

Still, sensitivity was a skill he was attempting to develop, and Balin wasn't looking to be scolded.

"I know," Dwalin said simply, and found a strange lump in his throat he couldn't identify. He swallowed it back, patting his brother's arm. "I know."

Allowing himself to be steered toward the king's table for reasons yet unknown, the warrior took the seat offered near the royals, and almost immediately spotted Niku near at hand, standing behind Billa's chair and a little to the side. When she saw him watching her, her beard twitched as she smiled. He decided she was in a very good mood. Perhaps she had taken some ale before the ceremonies started?

He'd not known her to be overly prone to levity, but then, he hadn't exactly known her in times of peace and contentment. Now that he thought about it, it had been a very long time since he'd been free of all burdens, allowed to let his guard down and relax a little.

He surprised himself by offering a faint smile in return. Nikû seemed pleased, as if he'd responded favorably to an unspoken invitation. She filled a flagon full to the brim with ale, sliding it down the table to him.

Dwalin nodded his thanks, his fingers curling around the solid wooden handle. It was fine stuff, no doubt about that. Probably the last of Dain's reserve.

Thorin was seated at the head of the table, Billa at his right, Fíli at his left. Kíli was across from Dwalin, Tauriel beside him.

It was a bit surreal, now that he thought about it. How much they had all endured in the past year, and yet, here they were again. Like nothing had changed. But  _ everything _ had changed. He could sense it, see it in every face, lurking just beneath the surface.

He took a hearty draught of ale, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Cold, crisp, foamy... potent. Almost immediately, he relaxed, the edge taken off his observations, his surroundings taking on a dreamy quality. Potent ale, indeed.

Nikû sat beside him, baby Dís on her shoulder. Billa was laughing, bantering with Kíli about something Dwalin hadn't caught. The gift exchange, maybe.

Thorin caught his eye, smiling knowingly. No words passed between them, but Dwalin understood the expression. All was well, and would be well hereafter. The sons of Fundin would remain to support their king, trusted protectors and guides.

Dwalin would've been lying if he claimed never to have doubted his use, his necessity here. In darker times, he had berated himself for his failings, his weakness. No longer. He was sure now. Thorin needed him, and always would. That was all he needed to know in his heart of hearts.

The feast was loud, cheerful, and boisterous. Every few minutes, a dwarf at one of the tables would stand up and call out a name, either one of the deceased, or one of the royals, and the whole table would drain their tankards. As the feast progressed, these toasts became less frequent, probably because the dwarves prone to giving them were too blitzed to continue.

It was at about that stage, when even Billa had slowed her eating, that Thorin stood and moved down the table to Dwalin's seat, looking as though he'd had a couple pints of the good ale already. He was smiling faintly, though still steady on his feet.

"Dwalin, old friend. I'd like a word."

Dwalin stood, uncertain what to expect.

By the look on Thorin's face, it probably wasn't anything to be too concerned about. Not that he'd been worried.

He followed the king a bit apart from the rest, where their conversation would have some privacy, and thankfully by now the noise level of the feast had died down enough they could at least hear each other. Thorin leaned against a carven pillar, and Dwalin wondered if he was tipsy, tired, or some mixture of both.

"If ye need to retire, I'm sure this can wait."

Thorin waved a hand dismissively, though he unfastened his heavy cloak and slung it over one arm. "Maybe if Billa presses another drink on me. I'm alright for now."

"Lightweight." Dwalin nudged his friend, the ghost of a teasing smile on his face. "Ye always were."

"That's not what I wanted to talk about," retorted Thorin, his expression unconvincingly stern. Dwalin swallowed a laugh and waited politely for his king to speak. After a moment, Thorin rolled his eyes and reached for a pouch on his belt. From it, he pulled a key. It was smaller than the one he had carried from the Shire, but made of the same dull, heavy iron.

"You've been with me a long time, shield-brother," said Thorin quietly, and offered him the key. "This will open a chest in your room. It's a... a thank-you from the both of us, for all you've done and are still doing. None of this would have been possible without you."

Dwalin looked away in surprise.

"Think nothin' of it," he murmured, mildly uncomfortable. But when Thorin persisted, he accepted the key, securing it to his belt with a thin leather cord. It was an honor to be recognized, he had to admit. Even if he'd never craved any such thing. To serve a king worthy of his respect was its own reward.

Dwalin nodded his thanks, and the two returned to the table. Fíli and Kíli had long since passed the height of their revelry, looking more apt to sleep than have another drink. Their respective brides seemed more alert, still engaged in vibrant conversation, contentment and peace in their faces.

Tauriel's twins had been brought at some point during the feast, probably at her own request, but they slept soundly, one on each shoulder. Much as little Dís now slumbered in Billa's arms, Thorin looking on with fatherly pride.

Excellent food and drink, in copious amounts. Scattered laughter and easy conversations. Lightness of heart. The hazy, warm feeling closing in on his thoughts. Dwalin braced himself on the edge of the table, fighting back the urge to doze. Nikû glanced at him, a knowing smile on her face.

"A finer feast none here have ever seen," she said softly, and Balin nodded agreement.

"Never in my lifetime," he said, pushing his plate aside. "And I'm older than most."

"Young as ye'll ever be," Dwalin pointed out. "I think all this has been good fer ye. Ye look a decade younger, at least."

"You're not so bad yourself, Dwal," said Balin, winking. "All that time among the Elves did wonders for your complexion."

Dwalin reached out with one large hand and gave his brother a shove. "Leave my complexion out of it," he growled good-naturedly. Even the mention of elves wasn't enough to ruin the buoyant mood of the Feast. Nikû laughed while Balin retaliated by throwing a juicy chunk of pork at him, crowing with triumph when it got stuck in Dwalin's beard.

Familiar laughter erupted from the far side of the table, where Fíli and Kíli seemed to have roused themselves just enough to witness the exchange.

Dwalin peeled the meat off his face, dropping it into his plate with some amount of restraint while Balin continued to chuckle.

"If yer not careful," warned Dwalin, whose patience was somewhat less sturdy for the meat juices trickling through his beard, "I'll complete the Feast by starting a proper brawl."

Balin laughed outright, a broad grin splitting his face. "You've never beat me in a brawl yet, Little Brother, and you won't start now." 

An expectant hush fell for a moment. That was an invitation if ever there was, but Dwalin had wits enough left to control himself. Verbal sparring had ever been his brother's preferred domain; Dwalin had long-developed skills in resisting his obvious provocations. However tempting it would've been to slosh his ale over Balin's white head.

Instead, he chuckled along with the others, raising his tankard to his brother's health. "Thanks fer the meat, Bal. Was gonna ask ye to pass some my way."

The quiet tension hovering around the table evaporated as he and Balin knocked their tankards together and laughed. Dwalin suspected that his brother was at least somewhat drunk, but he was perversely proud of him for having the guts to challenge him like that.

The Feast wound down slowly, and probably lasted far longer than any of the royals were willing to stick around for.

When Thorin and his One left the table, Dwalin followed, pleasantly relaxed and full to bursting with more meat than he had really needed to consume. As promised, there was a chest in his chambers, and the key fit the lock perfectly. He wondered if Thorin had made it. It looked like the king's handiwork. 

Curious, he lifted the lid. The chest was mostly empty, and smelled of freshly cut cedar. In the center, nestled into a blue velvet cushion, was a small, bejeweled dagger. It was beautifully made, inlaid along the handle with silver filigree, and carved with runes along the cross-guard. Dwalin held the dagger up to the lantern-light.

_ Dwalin Fundinson _ , he read, then rotated the dagger to the other side.  _ True and loyal friend. _ Simple. To the point.

It was a welcome gesture, and a gift both useful and fitting for a bodyguard.

He unsheathed the blade, admiring the fine forge-craft. No doubt Thorin's own. He had clearly spent some time on it.

It was a welcome reminder that however things had changed, Thorin would not forget his loyalty and service. That made it all worth it in the end.

With a contented sigh, he returned the dagger to the chest and locked it.

"You're not going to keep it with you?"

Dwalin jumped, nearly upsetting the chest as his arm flailed upward into a defensive stance. But the voice was female and familiar, not an enemy's.

"What're you doing in here?" Dwalin growled, doubly irritated Nikû had managed to avoid his detection as well as witness his obvious surprise.

"I decided not to waste my night. Being alone would have made it too easy to give in to grief. I want to celebrate." Nikû's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, betraying the sad smile that hid in her beard. Dwalin wasn't sure what to think about that. In the face of his silence, the dwarrowdam continued speaking.

"I realize we shall never wed. But we are Partners. You are mine as much as the King's. I am yours as much as the Queen's. And tonight, I choose to be with my Partner."

There was a moment of stillness in the room as Nikû let that sink in. Then, smiling a little more cheerfully, she took a step forward. "Now, back to my original question - you're not going to carry that knife with you?"

Dwalin scrubbed a hand through his beard, considering. He liked her. He liked that she didn't beat around the bush, or play games. She was about as good a match for his own skill as he could wish, and probably knew more in some areas. And she was loyal. Trustworthy. He liked that best of all. If it had been in her power, he knew she would've died to save her mistress. He also understood how the fact she'd been denied the chance to do so would haunt her until the end. Much as if Thorin had died while Dwalin languished in Rivendell, powerless to protect him.

With a grunt of admiration, Dwalin turned back to the chest, retrieved the dagger, and tied the scabbard at his belt.

"Stay if ye will," he said, trying to sound flippant, but secretly hoping she would. "Though I'm not much fer conversation when I'm asleep."

Even as he stumped over to the bed to sit and remove his boot, he heard a quiet sigh, and the softer footfalls of his Partner. Nikû followed him and sat down at his side.

"Thank you, Dwalin."

Dwalin grunted in acknowledgement. After stripping down to his under-tunic, he buckled his belt back on, pulled his covers back, and settled onto the bed.

His eyes remained closed, but he heard the distinct sounds of Nikû dimming the lantern before returning to his side.

"Just gonna sit there all night?" he mumbled after a minute or two had passed.

"Probably not all night," she admitted, "but if ya don't mind, I'll stay a while. I've got no wish to be alone tonight." There was a slight pause, and Dwalin felt her shift a little, the blankets pulling slightly to one side. "I know you understand. She was mine to protect, and I wasn't there." It didn't sound like she was asking for an explanation, or even for comfort. It was just a statement. Dwalin opened his eyes, and saw Nikû silhouetted against the dim lantern light, her strong nose and jutting beard outlined there. 

A moment passed as he studied her, considering his own thoughts on the matter. He didn't want to have to imagine himself in the same position, robbed of the one he'd made sacred vows to protect.

"Stay as long as ye need," he said softly, closing his eyes again. It wasn't much, but it was  _ something _ . She was his Partner. The least he owed her was his support.

There was a long silence after that, and Dwalin felt the night close around them like the warmth of a forge or the fur lining of a winter cloak. As sleep invaded his senses, he felt Nikû rest her weight against his side. She didn't need to say anything after that. It was good to know she trusted him. Dwalin smiled in the darkness and pressed his face into the pillow and let sleep take him, trusting her to wake him if he was needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billa: No, I really think you should talk to him.  
> Thorin: There's nothing to talk about.  
> Billa: You should thank him for everything he's done.  
> Thorin: I'm sure he knows I'm grateful. I really don't see the need for any of this.  
> Billa: If you can thank an elf, I think you can take a minute to thank the dwarf that followed you across the world three times, lost his leg in your service, and saved both our lives more times than we can count.  
> Thorin: . . .  
> Billa: I'm glad you agree with me.


	46. Thorin; As It Should Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Billa try to get a handle on their new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay - I've been in the process of moving (just finished today). It's been a madhouse here, but we're only one chapter from the end! :)

The soft scratching of Thorin's quill was the only sound in the quiet room, other than Billa's even breathing. She had taken to sleeping in the middle of the day when Dís went down for her nap, and with how often the infant woke in the middle of the night, Thorin didn't blame her. But he also suspected that she might be planning to have another. How a woman could plan such things, he wasn't sure, but it was a feeling he had, and he wasn't sure at all that he trusted Billa to tell him right out, even if she knew. It seemed like exactly the sort of ‘surprise’ she would like to spring on him.

The dwarf paused in his writing and looked over his shoulder at the bed, where Billa was curled in the middle of the sprawling mattress. He could see the tiny bundle that was their daughter in the blankets beside his burglar, and smiled. Things were the way they were meant to be, and he was thankful he'd survived to enjoy it.

As he watched, Billa began to stir. He didn't think much of it until he noticed her breathing had become quick and shallow, hissing between clenched teeth. She shifted restlessly under the covers, and the infant at her side woke with a little whimper of protest.

The quiet sound might as well have been warning bells. Billa shot upright, panting as she seemed to assess the room around her. Thorin laid the quill aside, moving quickly to the bed.

Dís, startled by all the sudden movement, had begun to keen more earnestly, and Billa reached for her, scooping the infant up with a tired sigh.

"Just a dream," she said, and rocked Dís.

Thorin stood watching her. "You're alright?"

Billa didn't seem to hear him. Her forehead still carried the faint sheen of sweat. Dís quieted, her eyes darting between the faces of her mother and father, as if for reassurance.

Billa's eyes were wide as she stared at him. No -  _ through _ him. "Just a dream, little one," she repeated, and Thorin felt a stab of concern, reaching for his wife's shoulder.

"Billa, are you alright?" He'd only just touched her when she twitched, focusing on him for the first time.

"You don't belong here," she breathed, clearly frightened.

He knew her better than to believe she could be serious. His hand on her shoulder tightened a little, his concern rising. 

"Billa." 

She shrank away from him, as though she weren't actually seeing _him_, but some terrifying, unwelcome figure. She'd never looked at him like that before. He didn't like it. 

"Wake up."

With her free arm, Billa shoved him forcefully away from her, trying to twist out from under his hand as Dís began to wail, catching her mother's fright.

"Get out of my house!" She nearly shouted the words, clutching her daughter protectively to her chest. Thorin felt the words like a knife, but couldn't bring himself to release her. 

"Billa, wake up!" He spoke louder this time, and the halfling stopped. For a moment she said nothing, only shuddering with fear under his hands. Then, quite suddenly, she spoke in a low, soothing voice that trembled with suppressed fear. 

"It's alright, Dís. It's okay. It was just a dream. Just a dream." She turned her head to look at him and he saw her hazel eyes, pupils still contracted with barely-controlled fear. "Thorin." He felt as though his name had never been more welcome a sound, even as broken as it sounded, and he pulled her close, holding her to him.

"Thorin," she said again, and he felt her relax against him, the tension leaving her body. Dís quieted, though she continued to whimper softly for a moment or two. 

"You're awake now," Thorin reassured her, and wondered what she could possibly have dreamt to warrant such a reaction. Mahal knew she'd been through enough; he thought it mightn't be the last time. 

"Thank... goodness," said Billa, the first word half-constricted, the second loosening up with obvious relief. "Oh, Thorin, I...." She blinked thoughtfully, her brow slightly creased, as though she were trying to concentrate. Or remember. 

"What were you dreaming about?" Thorin ran a hand through her curls, separating the soft strands between his fingers. 

She sighed, closing her eyes.

"I was in Bag End. Everything was... normal. But you were all dead, and I was alone, and Dís was sick, and an orc came into the kitchen...." Billa shuddered, and he held her more tightly. He was a little surprised when she kept talking. "It wasn't really being alone that frightened me, or even the orc... it was the feeling that nowhere was safe. Not even my little hole back home, where nothing unusual ever happened. Nothing was safe anymore. And I knew I would never be safe again."

Thorin was quiet a moment, affected by the despair in her tone as she relived her dream. 

"But none of that is true, my love," he said finally, gently lifting her chin so her gaze met his. "None of that will  _ ever _ be true." 

She seemed to gather strength from the conviction in his tone, the truth in his eyes. 

"I know," she said, offering him a little smile. "I know you'd never let anything like that happen." She paused, glancing away, appearing to consider. "I had another dream a few nights ago. Just as vivid. But it was... different."

"Different?"

Billa's cheeks turned slightly red, but she told him quietly that her other dream had been about their family. "At least, I think they were part of our family. There were twin hobbits, uncommonly large and strong, but with dark hair and very noble faces, like you. They were climbing a mountain in a dark, evil place. They were leading a pony that carried something of great power, and I didn't know until they reached the top that it was my ring. The one I gave you. They took it out of the chest that the pony carried and threw it over a cliff into deep fire, hotter than any forge." She paused there, tense again, but turned her gaze on his face. Thorin wasn't sure whether the dream was frightening or comical. He listened quietly, offering no comment. Billa seemed to take heart from that, and leaned her rosy cheek against his shoulder. 

"I don't know if it meant I was letting go of my old ring or that I wanted to have twin sons. Maybe both. They were very handsome. I wouldn't mind having sons like that." 

It was a remarkable dream, Thorin thought. Kíli had told him, privately, of the fate of the Ring Billa had once carried. That the sons of Elrond had undertaken the quest to destroy it. He'd said nothing to Billa on the subject, for fear of her reaction, and had advised Kíli of the same. So was this dream a sign, then? Had the venture succeeded? 

"You're very quiet." Billa was talking again, and Thorin realized his mind had drifted. 

"I never did tell you," he said, leaning down to plant a kiss in her curls. "I never told you how much it meant to me. That you gave up the Ring." He hesitated, wondering if even now her hands still occasionally twitched in unconscious desire to hold the accursed thing. "I know it was not easy."

"Thank you. It was hard but... worth it." Billa lifted herself onto her sturdy toes and kissed the tip of his nose, which made Thorin feel simultaneously awkward and pleased. Someone tapped at the door, interrupting the peaceful moment. Niku poked her head in to tell them that, of course, something needed the king's attention. 

"It's urgent, Your Majesty." Niku looked genuinely apologetic, and Thorin knew she wouldn't have dared disturb them for an unimportant matter. 

"What is it?" As he pulled on his boots, the dwarf watched Niku, unsettled by her troubled expression. 

"It seems that your nephews have fallen into some trouble with a group of nobles. I believe there were some words exchanged about Princess Tauriel, and things got a little... out of hand." 

Thorin ran a hand over his face, then offered Billa an apologetic look. 

"Better hurry, Thorin," said the hobbit, and he could see a slight smile playing at her lips. No doubt the nobles deserved whatever they'd gotten, but still.... 

"I won't be long," he said, and followed Nikû as she led him briskly out and down the corridor. 

He could hear the commotion a considerable while before he saw the scale of it, and the dwarrowdam noticeably picked up her pace. 

"I fear it's become a proper brawl since I left." 

Thorin sighed. "My nephews would have it no other way."

As they rounded the corner, the brawl came into sight, and a beautiful brawl it was. No fewer than a dozen dwarves were involved, most taking wild swings at one another with bare fists while a select few (guards on duty, Thorin supposed) tried to separate the combatants. In the thickest part of the fighting, a blond head bobbed to and fro, evading the hefty blows of his larger opponent, while Kíli's dark locks were almost invisible under the beard of the dwarf holding him in a tight headlock.

Thorin pushed swiftly through, his passage aided by the fact that many of the brawlers in his path lost their will to fight upon noticing him. Kíli struggled against the dwarf holding him, but hadn't succeeded in escaping the headlock. Thorin planted a hand on the attacker's forehead, giving him a powerful shove that sent the two back onto the floor. The interruption was enough to give Kíli an opening, and the younger dwarf jumped free of the hold, twisting to avoid the hands leaping out to seize him again. 

Then both noticed who had shoved them.

"Uncle!" 

"Your Majesty! I-" 

Thorin turned his head, noting that Fíli had somehow dropped his larger opponent, who now sat on the floor holding his jaw and looking stunned. The brawl began to settle, some at the fringes slinking away before they could be implicated. 

"Would someone care to explain this to me?" Thorin looked back at Kíli, who seemed to shrink in stature beneath the weight of unmistakable guilt.

Fíli seemed less ashamed than his brother, though there was a certain defiant pride in his expression as he answered. "There were unnecessary and untrue comments made about Lady Tauriel and my brother's children. When challenged to rescind the insult, this fellow refused." Fíli pointed at the dwarf on the floor, who was smoothing his beard fastidiously, though he hadn't yet made any effort to regain his feet. This might have been because Fíli was standing on his ankle.

Thorin's brows lifted slightly as he recognized the dwarf. Lord Bikur. He'd only lately migrated from the Iron Hills, delayed by the pomp and ceremony surrounding a very profitable marriage to a merchant's daughter. Or so Thorin had heard. 

"Let him up, Nephew." The king surveyed the crowd sternly, and noticed several more at the fringes of the brawl slipping away. 

Reluctantly, Fíli removed his boot from his opponent's ankle, and the smooth-bearded dwarf clambered to his feet, sputtering in rage. "I demand an apology for this- this- shameful display!" The noble's face was livid, and even as he straightened his opulent robes, he looked fit to be tied. "That this passes for royal behavior in these halls...." Lord Bikur cast a scornful eye on Thorin. "Your grandfather would have been appalled."

Thorin reflected that a mere six months ago, this statement would have sent him into a spiraling trend of anger and depression. Now it was merely irritating. 

"You can rest assured that I will be speaking with my nephews at length concerning their conduct in public. I will also have a discussion with yourself concerning slights against members of the royal family. If you disapprove of our wives or our children, it might perhaps be wise for you to serve a different king. Perhaps I can help you with that."

Lord Bikur glanced at a few of the assembled dwarves, as if hoping they might object on his behalf. No one did. Then, with a mighty harrumph, the offended dwarf muttered what sounded like a curse, turned, and stalked away. Thorin noticed he was limping. 

The rest of the assembly dispersed, slowly, some of them supporting each other, a few of them looking as though they were disappointed the brawl had ended so suddenly. 

The dwarf who had had Kíli in the headlock glared up at Thorin, swatting away his dark-haired nephew's hand. "Don't think we'll soon forget this," he growled, getting to his feet with a pained grunt. "We're not the only ones who don't care to silently... tolerate it."

"Tolerate what, exactly?" Thorin folded his arms tensely, feeling Nikû just to his left and Fíli on his right. They were a united front. A family.

The scowling dwarf glared at them. "It's unnatural, letting that elf sorceress into the Mountain. We don't want her or her spawn."

It was a baiting tactic, that was clear. Kíli lunged, held in check by his uncle and brother. Had such words been spoken about Billa, Thorin wasn't sure how he would've reacted.

"I extend the same offer to you as I gave Lord Bikur." The king's tone was deadly grave, even as he gripped his nephew's arm, struggling to hold him. "And if but one instance of you speaking such words again beneath this Mountain reaches my ears, I will ensure the preferred partner and children of my kin will no longer be of any relevance to you. You have my oath."

The dwarf took a half-step back, eyeing Thorin with something like grudging respect. As he turned to leave, he muttered something that sounded like "bewitched" before retreating. Kíli continued straining to get at the idiot until he was out of sight, hissing insults under his breath. 

"You can see why it was hard to get to the training room in time to deal with this privately," muttered Fíli with a rueful smile. 

Kíli extricated himself from his uncle's grasp. " 'Spawn'? That oozing goblin wart thinks he can call my children 'spawn'?!" He released a string of curses upon the dwarf and his house that briefly made Thorin close his eyes. "If I ever get my hands on that scum, I'll-"

"You'll do no such thing." The king's voice was stern, and left no room for argument. Kíli glared down the hall whence the dwarf had gone, as though halfway hoping he'd come back for another round. He didn't, thankfully. 

Fíli kicked at a chunk of stone that had fallen from a pillar during the fight. Other such scratches, stains, and blood-spots remained to mar the otherwise flawlessly polished floor. "That was stupid, Kee." But his face said he didn't entirely regret it. Thorin knew the look of satisfaction only barely held in check. 

"If Tauriel hears what happened..." Kíli trailed off, turning plaintive eyes on Thorin. "I just don't know, Uncle. I don't know if it's worth it." 

The young dwarf shook his head, beads and braids askew, hair sticking up at odd angles. "I never wanted to subject her to this. Even if it's rare. It still hurts."

Thorin felt his nephew's distress as if it were his own. With a sigh, he stepped forward and started to smooth down Kíli's ruffled hair. 

"It's not your fault. Something like this was bound to happen, one way or another. But running away from it won't fix it. We'll work with the nobles to weed out the ones that agree with Bikur."

"And what if there are more of them than we think?" Kíli flapped a hand at Thorin, stepping back to smooth his own hair. "What if more than we think agree with Lord Bikur? I can't stand the thought of my children growing up believing they're hated. It's going to be hard enough on them finding out they're different from all their playmates, when the time comes." 

"We can't control every thought in Erebor." Thorin's tone carried a certain resignation. He knew to moderate and censor would be to turn the kingdom once again into one ruled by fear. "All we can do is hope they'll give us a chance to prove them wrong. Open words of treason will not be tolerated. But those who simply disagree with the changes - those who cannot accept how quickly they have come - may yet be persuaded. Give them some time." 

He put a hand on his nephew's shoulder, offering a half-smile. Kíli made an uncertain sound, glancing at his brother. Fíli stood leaning back against a pillar, thoughtfully tugging on one messy braid of his mustache. 

"He's right, Kee. Wasn't long ago I would've punched an elf just for being annoying. But that was Gwinír, and he mostly deserved it. Still, we gave each other a chance." He chuckled, the gleam of amusing memories in his eyes. "You know, Tauriel actually has pretty decent odds of winning them over. She has less of that... 'elvishness' about her than most of her kind."

"You just mean she's not snobbishly superior about everything," retorted Kíli, but his expression eased a little. Thorin made a mental note to ask Balin about diplomacy lessons for the boys. Fíli was coming along well, but Kíli still needed some work.

"Come on, you two. You need to clean up and explain to your wives why you look like you were caught in a cave-in."

Kíli nodded glumly. "I'd rather that were what happened." 

Thorin figured he would struggle with telling Tauriel he'd been in a brawl. And one in defense of her honor, no less. 

"You'll manage," he said, and escorted them back to their rooms. Nikû returned to her duties shortly thereafter, and Thorin returned to his hobbit. 

Billa was singing to Dís as he returned, something about "acorns" and "Halimath." The tune was lively, and her voice suited it perfectly. A harvest song from the Shire, maybe. He lingered outside the doorway a moment longer than necessary, just so he could listen that much more before his appearance interrupted her.

"How did it go?" she asked curiously when he finally went in, sitting up straighter in the bed. Little Dís was once more asleep, contentedly clutching a small stuffed dragon that looked suspiciously like Smaug. Billa had made it. Thorin wasn't sure he approved. 

"It went... about as you'd expect. Don't be surprised if you see a few more black eyes and bruises on the nobles than usual."

He was a little more surprised than he should have been when a satisfied smirk crossed her round face. "It's no more than they deserve, I would guess. If I've learned a thing about dwarven nobility, it's that they think they know absolutely everything better than everyone else."

Thorin briefly considered taking offense. The hobbit must have seen the look on his face, though, because she flashed him an affectionate smile. 

"You and the boys have gotten much better about that. Or maybe I've learned to tell when you don't really mean it. Either way, it's a change for the better."

There was a pause, quiet and peaceful, as Thorin took a seat on the edge of the bed. In a moment, he was holding his sleeping daughter, smiling as she pressed her tiny face into the fur at his throat. 

"What was the fight about?" Billa's voice was quieter this time. A glance at her face showed that she was still smiling, but lines of concern had formed around her eyes.

Thorin considered a moment, hesitant to worry his wife. He gave a brief account of the brawl, trying to downplay it as much as possible. "My nephews had it sorted," he concluded. "I had little to do in the end." 

Billa tilted her head suspiciously, nodding slowly. "I'm sure." 

Thorin's composure broke, the tiniest hint of a smile betraying him. "In any case, all is well that ends so." 

Billa chuckled, the movement causing her beads to chime. "I guess." She sighed happily. "And now, love. Is your kingly business finished?" She leaned toward him slightly, winking. "Do I get to have you all to myself for the rest of the day?" 

Thorin blushed a little. But even as he opened his mouth to reply, there was another knock at the door. The dwarf king couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or relieved by the intrusion. 

Balin poked his head in the door. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"You are." Billa sounded somewhat peeved, but she smiled at Balin all the same. "What urgent matter calls my husband away this time?"

Balin, untroubled, waved a hand and laughed softly. "In that case, I'll come back later." He turned to go.

"Wait," said Billa, and the old dwarf turned back. "Now I'm actually curious." 

"Just the weekly report," Balin said, holding up a thick, leather-bound book. "Nothing so important it can't wait."

The halfling gave him a queer look, as though an idea had just occurred to her, and she were surprised by it. "I suppose I ought to listen as well. I can't be holed up by Dís and my garden all the time."

At that, Balin looked less than pleased. Concern creased his brow. "But you're still-" he began, but never finished the sentiment.

"If you're going to utter the words 'not recovered' or 'my lady,' you can stop right there." Billa glowered comically, and Thorin had to exert himself to keep from laughing, hastily occupying himself with fussing over his daughter. "I am _plenty_ recovered, thank you very much, and if I'm not allowed to help my husband tend his affairs then I'll be left to burden you all with produce and babies."

It was deeply amusing to see Balin blush so at the threat, but Thorin was not immune to his wife's influence, and felt his face grow warm under his beard.

"Well, since you put it  _ that _ way...." Balin recovered a little, smiling at the hobbit cheekily. He stepped back into the room, shut the door, opened the book, and cleared his throat.

"The brief version will suffice," said Thorin, fearing another lengthy account of the kingdom's various minor incidents, successes, and economic dealings. 

Balin nodded, seeming to consider a moment. "Right, then. The brief version." He chuckled. "Things are going well, mostly." Closing the book crisply, he tucked it under his arm and bowed.

Billa didn't look at all convinced. "Mostly?" she asked probingly, slipping off the bed to straighten the blankets and all the while keep her sharp gaze on Balin's face. 

Balin hesitated for less than a second, but his eyes flicked to Thorin before he nodded. "Yes." 

"So what's not going well?" Billa was bound and determined to make trouble. Thorin sighed a little, and was immediately confronted by a pair of bright hazel eyes. 

"Do you want me to be your partner or your ward, Thorin?" Her question was well-aimed, and Thorin winced a little. 

He decided there probably wasn't a right answer to that question, and thankfully, Balin rescued him from the dilemma. 

"Well, for starters, we have a few nobles less than pleased with the events earlier today," the old dwarf said, not looking at all concerned. "I've had a few complaints lodged, which I filed. For safekeeping." 

Thorin knew that meant they'd probably been disposed of, but said nothing.

"Anything else?" Billa pressed. 

Balin looked for all the world like he was hiding a delicious secret. Maybe just to annoy the hobbit. "Well... it's not exactly ill news. Just interesting."

Billa looked at him expectantly, and when Balin continued to look smug and mysterious, she reached out and gave his beard a gentle tweak. "Come on, Bal. I know you're enjoying yourself but I want to  _ know. _ " 

Thorin glanced at his advisor and wondered if he was teaching the hobbit that tending to royal matters was...  _ fun _ . A curious thought, but he could see that it was working. 

"There's been... an invitation."

Billa's brow creased with puzzlement. "An invitation? How could that be bad news?"

Thorin narrowed his eyes warily, not liking where this was going. "Who from?"

Balin was clearly amusing himself far too much. He folded his arms placidly, his cadence unhurried. "The invitation? I believe it was from someone the king isn't particularly fond of." 

"Out with it," Billa demanded, likely desperate to have her suspicions confirmed. Thorin tensed with anticipatory horror. 

"Thranduil," said Balin smoothly. "The Elvenking."

Thorin cursed under his breath, and almost immediately regretted it when his wife gave him an evil look. 

"Don't you use language like that around my daughter," she hissed, bristling like an angry squirrel. Thorin nodded hastily, not wanting her to do anything rash. He imagined her punishment would end up in his food or worse - in his drink. 

Balin chuckled, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "The invitation was not extended to you, Majesties. It's for Tauriel and her family." 

Thorin couldn't quite conceal his relief, and Billa elbowed him in the side. Dís complained, scrunching up her face without opening her eyes. The dwarf king and his queen froze, waiting until the infant's features relaxed once more, her quiet breathing signaling the return to normal sleep. Thorin exhaled. Billa relaxed a little. 

"And... will Tauriel and her family be _accepting_ the invitation?" she asked, more quietly. 

Balin stroked the soft white fluff of his beard, now nearly returned to its full, impressive length. "That I can't tell you, lass. But if it were a wager," the old dwarf winked slyly, "I'd put my money on it."

Thorin frowned, but it was more a reflex than an accurate depiction of his current emotional state... though it might have also been accurate. That wasn't the point.

"Why do you think they'd leave the Mountain?"

Balin looked, if anything, even more infuriatingly smug than before. "Because your wife is very persuasive."

Blinded by temporary bafflement, Thorin looked down at his One, who seemed just as confused as he, but only for a moment. Then she blushed.

"Oh. Right. I... well, I didn't think you'd actually _send_ it."

"Send what?" The feeling of ignorance was quickly losing its novelty, and the dwarf reminded himself that he was still holding his daughter, and didn't want to wake her.

"I might have... well, I wrote a rather... strongly worded letter... to Thranduil, when I heard about how... well, anyway, I never intended it to be sent. But it was. And now he's invited Tauriel to visit, and I'm not sure if he plans to apologize or put her in jail."

"Ah, lass," said Balin, straightening his tunic a little. "I don't think he'd bother calling her back simply to imprison her. Most of the elves think this place is little better than a jail anyway." He winked. 

Thorin didn't appreciate the comment, but said nothing, squinting suspiciously at a dusty smudge on his boot that was probably from "getting involved" in the conflict earlier. 

Billa hummed thoughtfully. "I guess that's true. All I wanted was for them to, well, reconcile. I know it bothers her. Tauriel. She still feels guilty."

Thorin glanced sidelong at his wife, and found her looking vaguely troubled, though not completely unhappy. 

"This invitation could not have been better-timed. A chance for the nobles to cool down would not go amiss, I think." Balin smiled benevolently around the room at them, and chuckled when Dís squeaked quietly in her sleep.

Something occurred to Thorin, and he wondered how he hadn't noticed it sooner. As far as he could tell, his old friend had yet to hold Dís. At least, not for any considerable length of time.

"Balin... do you...?" 

Failing at words, Thorin gently raised the sleeping child, holding her out to Balin. The dwarf king smiled. He had a vision, sort of. A vision of Balin being to his daughter what his own father might have been had he lived to see this day. A grandfather. 

Balin looked a bit hesitant, glancing at Billa as if for permission. As if the act were somehow ceremonial, or sacred. A binding oath.

Billa looked between the two dwarves, then laughed. The gravity of the moment shattered like glass under the sound of her cheer, and she beamed at Balin with all the warmth of the midsummer sun. 

"She's a baby, not a bauble. Go on and give her a cuddle. She loves being held." 

Uncertainly, Balin reached out, taking the babe into his arms with the delicacy of a scribe handling an ancient bit of parchment. Billa was still beaming, and she chuckled at the warm smile spreading across the old dwarf's face as Dís unconsciously tangled her tiny fingers in his beard. 

"She's a blessing," Balin pronounced after a moment, and Thorin wondered at the waver in his voice. Could the old dwarf be close to tears? 

"Yes she is," said Billa, grinning. "When she's kept well-fed, dry, and rested. Otherwise, I see bits of her father's temper."

Balin let out a quiet, startled laugh, and Dís turned a little in her sleep, pressing her face into his beard. They stayed like that for some time, sitting near the fire, speaking softly to one another about the past, the future, and the precious present. It was Billa that put an end to it, and Thorin thought to himself that he ought to have seen it coming. 

"Thorin, we started something earlier that I'm in a mood to finish. Either that, or someone needs to feed me." She gave him a meaningful look. 

Thorin raised his eyebrows, hoping Balin hadn't overheard. 

It was clear from the old dwarf's expression that he had. 

"I can watch the little one," he said, seeming to have fully embraced his sacred duty. He and little Dís were going to get along very well, Thorin decided. 

Before he could respond, Billa had him up and was tugging him toward the door. 

"Alone time," she said firmly, and Balin's eyes twinkled with laughter. 

"Go on, Thorin. There's no business you can possibly have that's worth more than spending time with your little burglar."

"My little burglar," echoed Thorin softly, and looked down at the halfling as she tugged him away toward "alone time." Balin was right, of course. Nothing was more important than spending time with her. He stooped, catching her up against his chest and holding her tight to him as he strode along. He knew where they would go. He knew where no one would interrupt them. 

Billa's garden was filled with warm, evening sunshine. He set her down on the moist earth and smiled as he saw her wiggle her toes into the soil. On a whim, he toed off his boots and pulled off the woolen stockings underneath. Bare feet weren't proper, but he thought, just this once... it might be worth it.

Billa raised her eyebrows at him. "Well, well," she said, seeming both surprised and pleased. "Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?" 

Thorin settled his feet into the soft earth, stopping short of wiggling his toes. That would've been going too far. The soil was soft and cool, refreshing somehow, a perfect complement to the pleasant warmth of the sunlight. 

In lieu of a reply, the dwarf caught the unsuspecting Billa up in a passionate kiss, lifting her to rest against his midsection. Her short, sturdy legs couldn't quite meet behind his back. When their lips parted, Billa stared at him in shock. "Confusticated dwarf!" 

He could tell she was delighted.

"Maybe I am." Thorin was finding it somewhat difficult to keep a straight face. "What are you going to do about it?" 

Her answer was another kiss. The dwarf thought briefly that he might regret making this a  _ game _ , but that impression faded away in the pleasure of having his wife to himself. Her small, dexterous hands were quicker than he remembered, undoing an alarming number of buttons while he was distracted with her lips. 

He had hardly considered the possibility anyone might come around to see before she'd pulled open his shirt, her fingers moving quickly to worship the solid, muscled chest before her. 

Thorin studied her hazel eyes, how they glinted mischievously as she took hold of his warm sides, the better to anchor herself as she leaned up into an even deeper, more needful kiss. This turned into several more, as both of them realized how much they needed this. One of Thorin's hands supported Billa's back, the other framed the side of her face, fingers disappearing into her light brown curls while hers caressed his chest and shoulders. The beads in their hair chimed away, unnoticed, underscored by the sound of desperate, ravenous kisses. 

Thorin's head swam, his knees getting a bit wobbly. He decided he no longer cared if anyone happened to see them. 

"That patch of grass... over there," Billa gasped, out of breath, waving a hand toward one of the more secluded areas of the garden. "Better lie down before we  _ fall _ down."

She had a good point, if put somewhat indelicately. Thorin tottered over to the grassy area on wobbly legs, reflecting on the complete uselessness of delicacy when dealing with his hobbit. If this could be called "dealing with." It felt more like "being handled by" his hobbit. Before he'd quite understood what was happening, he was on his back in the grass, the sun warm against his chest, and his burglar being incredibly indelicate with regards to their clothing. Further thoughts were... not formed. For a while. There were other things to expend energy on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lines that almost made it into this chapter-
> 
> Balin: If I were the sort of dwarf to lay bets, my money would be on them accepting the invitation.   
> Thorin: If you were the sort of dwarf to lay bets, you wouldn't have anything to bet with.   
> Balin: Fair point.


	47. Epilogue- Tauriel; Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel and Kíli take their family to visit the Elvenking.

Tauriel kept pace with the ponies, jogging along at Kíli's knee and at peace for the first time since they'd left the Mountain. Birgir was in his sling on her back, and he giggled as he reached for the low-hanging branches, still out of reach for his short arms. Being under the trees again was like a deep breath of air after a long underwater swim. And being able to run again - that was a blessing by itself. 

"We will arrive shortly," announced their guide, an elf wearing a green headband and the blue uniform of an ambassador to the dwarves and the Lake. Honestly, a guide had been unnecessary, but official checklists had to be followed, regardless of their actual usefulness.

Gathien was in Kíli's arms, cooing at Tauriel's riderless horse trailing behind them. The twins were happy, and that made things good, regardless of what was to come.

It seemed but a few short moments before they were entering through the great doors of Thranduil's kingdom and escorted to the guest quarters, where they were welcomed and given warm water and towels. The tiny waterfall built into the wall trickled gently into a tray of round stones, where it evidently drained into the floor and continued on its way. Tauriel sighed happily, pressing the warm, wet towel to her face. 

Their guide spoke softly with another elf in the hall outside, then stepped back into the room. 

"Take a moment to refresh yourselves, my friends," he said. "Then follow me. The king has requested you join him in the garden."  

Kíli looked a bit apprehensive, but Tauriel smiled, gently scrubbing Gathien's dirty hands in the basin (she'd been making mud pies earlier in the day, during one of their rests). 

"My husband and I will come shortly," she said. "Are... our little ones welcome?" 

Their guide hesitated, and Tauriel could tell he wasn't entirely sure of the answer, though to his credit, he sounded confident when he delivered it.

"Of course they are, lady." He was smiling, and Tauriel returned it willingly. She saw Kíli's anxious look, and leaned closer to touch her forehead to his gently. 

"We're only here to find the answers. Once we have them, we are done, one way or another. No more worries." 

The tension in Kíli's face seemed to lessen, and he nodded. She knew this wasn't easy for him, much as it had strained her to feel the weight of judgment under the Mountain. But both knew it was worth it; they wouldn't trade what they had for anything. 

They finished freshening up, gathered up the twins, and followed their guide. Little had changed in Thranduil's kingdom. The spacious stone passages, echoing with the soft sound of falling and trickling water, wound up and down in their familiar way. Even now, the elleth could have navigated them blindfolded. 

"You miss this place." Kíli's tone made it difficult to determine whether his words were statement or question. She decided on the latter. 

Tauriel sighed faintly, cradling Gathien in one arm and trailing the other hand along the stony wall. "Yes," she murmured softly. "It was my home for many years. I know every path, every root and every stone. But I can learn to love a new home. The one where my husband and children live is better than one where I have only memories." Her free hand left the wall, and she touched Kíli's arm. It was hard to read his expression. She paused to look into his face properly.

His dark chocolate eyes glistened a little in the torchlight, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly. He'd changed so much from the young, impetuous dwarf she'd once known, seen and experienced and endured so much. His face bore memories of the death he'd almost tasted, the struggle to stay where he belonged, with his wife and family. 

On a whim, she reached out and took his hand. The moment, brief as it was, seemed to endure, as if the water fell more slowly, the torch-fire burned less quickly. Then it was broken by a familiar sensation of pain in her scalp. Gathien was getting a bit restless, tugging on an escaped strand of hair Tauriel had tried in vain to tuck back into the single, wide braid trailing down her back. With a soft laugh, the elleth shifted their daughter's position on her shoulder. 

"This one is ready for a meal, I think," she said. "I hope the king is expecting to have a couple of hungry children on his hands." 

"Probably not," said Kíli with a soft chuckle. "We'll make it work." Tauriel imagined how Thranduil might react if she went aside to feed her daughter, and wasn't sure whether the idea was amusing or unsettling. 

The grotto where they were led was used by the royals almost exclusively. She and Legolas had come here often in past years to speak privately, or to spar. It was a lovely place, and there was Thranduil, tall and statuesque and grim, waiting for them. Tauriel bowed deeply, feeling a sort of regret for that which was past. 

To her surprise, the Elvenking's grim aspect faded slightly, his mouth forming the barest hint of a smile. 

"Welcome," he said, and turned his fair head to indicate a small, thin-legged table laden with a few trays of food. Meat, fruit, and bread mostly, as well as a pitcher of wine. "You must be weary from your journey."

Unexpectedly, Birgir let out a loud burst of gibberish that sounded like a string of words he'd only lately picked up. 

"Hush," said Kíli softly, glancing at his wife uncertainly.

Tauriel looked at her son, then at Thranduil, who was frowning slightly at the child. His expression was so perplexed that the elleth was very tempted to laugh. It was a valiant struggle to suppress the urge, but she could feel the corners of her lips twitching upward in spite of her best efforts.

Birgir, who seemed to think his father was playing a game, started making enthusiastic shushing noises - a sound he had only very recently mastered, and with came out sound like "Ffffff" half the time anyway. Gathien was more interested in her midday meal, and was pulling at the laces on her mother's tunic in a very pointed fashion. Thranduil didn't seem to know what to do with this, so Tauriel stepped into the gap, as she had many times before when she lived under the Elvenking's care.

"Thank you, my lord, for your generosity. We traveled easily, and are not spent, but we and the children are hungry, and welcome the chance to eat."

Thranduil gave a nod, jostling the crown of leaves and berries. Stepping aside, he gestured biddingly. Tauriel gave Kíli a look that meant it was alright. 

Kíli hesitated still, so Tauriel turned to lead the way. 

The sky above, glimpsed only through the round hole in the ceiling of the cavern, was deep blue, warm with sunlight. By its light only was this garden possible, hedges and trailing ivy and delicate flowers in twilight hues. Even as Tauriel had her meal, she drank in the sight, feeling it minister to her soul as if to offset the time spent in a mountain devoid of plant-life of any kind (except Billa's garden, of course). Thranduil, to her relief, took food and drink with them instead of standing about watching them eat. They dined at a table beneath an intricately carved wooden canopy. The fountains whispered around them,  the fragrance of the flowers floated on the air. Thranduil was kind, though he spoke little. Tauriel gained the impression he wished to make peace, and worked to keep his judgment in check. 

The children were hungry, though, and after a time, the elleth set her plate aside, scooped up both the twins, and excused herself to remedy the problem. 

Tauriel didn't think about who she was leaving alone together until after she was secluded with the twins, and by then it was too late. There was no rushing Birgir when he was set on taking his time, nor would Gathien tolerate any shortening of their post-meal snuggling. And it wasn't until his sister was asleep that Tauriel realized her son's sing-song babble had all along been the words "green" and "father" in Sindarin and Khuzdul, respectively. She doubted he knew what the words meant, but it was progress all the same.

At last, with Gathien asleep in one arm and Birgir attempting to climb her shoulder on the other side, Tauriel returned to the table. To her surprise, Thranduil and Kíli were absorbed in a quiet conversation, each looking seriously at the other. She'd only just caught her own name and something about the river when both males stopped speaking, looking about at her as innocently as if nothing at all had happened.

Tauriel was surprised. She'd half expected them to sit in silence for the duration of her absence. 

Kíli claimed Gathien, and the little girl squealed happily as he scooped her into his arms, settling her over his shoulder. As Tauriel seated herself once more at the table, the dwarf began to gently pat their daughter's back, coaxing out the extra air she'd swallowed during her meal. 

Thranduil watched intently as she did the same for Birgir, though he made no comment. There was something in his face that Tauriel wondered at, something of a memory, tinged with what might have been grief. The elleth wondered how long it had been since the Elvenking had seen this practice. Maybe not since Legolas was an infant. 

The thought twisted within her like real pain. Legolas. They had heard no news of him. Not so much as a whisper. 

"My lord," she said softly, unable to look at him directly. "Have you heard aught of... of the prince?" There was a certain guilt that welled up within her, a remnant of the Guard captain who would have sooner die than allowed her prince to come to grief. 

She could feel him studying her, and strove not to move, not even to adjust the child in her arms. When at last the Elvenking spoke, it was in a quiet, modulated tone that she could not read. 

"Yes. I have heard of the prince and his companions." Another pause, and Tauriel thought her nerves might snap from the strain. "I expect them to arrive within the week."

"Arrive?" Tauriel's gaze snapped up to meet Thranduil's, and he nodded solemnly. 

"So, they did it? The Ring is gone?" Kíli was beginning to grin. Again, Thranduil nodded. 

"I may not have merited one of the Great Rings, but I could sense the destruction of its power."

Overwhelming relief washed over the elleth, and she closed her eyes briefly. "Thank you." 

It was addressed to Thranduil, but might as well have been a prayer to the Valar. That the quest would succeed was more than she could have hoped. Guilty as it made her feel, though, she felt greater relief that Legolas had survived. 

"It is a great weight from my shoulders." Thranduil took a sip of wine, then returned his fine glass goblet to the table. "I feel it. It touches every part of my realm, all that is within my control. Never in my time have things felt so... stable." 

Kíli nodded slowly. "It was that power that brought the spiders and things," he murmured, and Tauriel made a soft noise of agreement. 

"Did the old fortress... is it empty?" She realized now that the refreshing, clean sense she'd gotten when they returned to the forest wasn't just her relief at returning, but the absence of the darkness that had tainted this place for as long as she could remember.

Thranduil shook his head, silvery hair shimmering as it cascaded over his shoulders. "Not empty, but nearly so. The Guard have been driving the filth out since the Necromancer departed."

Tauriel exhaled, shutting her eyes momentarily. A hundred years and more she had longed for this. Now she could scarcely believe it was real. The Woodland Realm would no longer be a haven for creatures of darkness. Light and joy would return, even to those areas that had been most dangerous. The Elves would again feast in the woods, untroubled by the evil of the Necromancer. 

Seeming to sense her thought, Thranduil smiled. "We have much cause for joy, forest-daughter. I hope..." 

The Elvenking hesitated, and Tauriel wondered at the uncertainty that overtook his features. Regret, or something like it. 

He collected himself quickly. "I hope you will not hold against me what I said in times more dire. Even those among the eldest and wisest are not... incapable of error." 

Tauriel saw Kíli shift out of the corner of her eye, and glanced at him in time to intercept a look of startled wonder that matched her own feelings on the situation. Had Thranduil just admitted he had been wrong? Yes... that was what it sounded like. 

"All offenses are forgiven," she murmured.

"Remind me to ask Billa what she wrote," whispered Kíli in an awed tone. 

Thranduil shot him a mildly irritated glance, though his mouth curved upward with amusement. "What the halfling wrote is none of your business, Master Dwarf."

Kíli didn't seem offended, and Tauriel gathered he too caught the mirth in the Elvenking's face. 

Gathien and Birgir were both asleep now, breathing peacefully, their soft, open faces the most beautiful thing in the world for the elleth. 

"I thought," Thranduil went on, swirling the wine in his glass, "that perhaps, when your children are older, you might consider... rejoining the Guard." 

That surprised Tauriel as much as anything, and she looked up. That he would ask her pardon was one thing. To trust her again in her previous capacity was more than she would have ever thought possible. 

She could sense her husband's intent gaze on her, but felt no pressure as such to answer as she knew she must. 

"My lord," she said, smiling softly. "I am honored. But my place is in Erebor, with my husband and children. Mithrandir believes that these little ones may," she hesitated a moment, trying to steer away from sounding too grandiose, "one day hold the future of the Dwarven people." 

"They will be just as important to your own people, if I know aught of the future." Thranduil's soft assertion was but another wonder in a long line of surprises. Tauriel watched her children's sleeping faces and tried to imagine what the days to come might hold for them. 

"Thank you, my lord. This... means a great deal to me." What else could she say? Nothing else fit.

After that, conversation came more easily. The tension between them had been broken, somehow, like an unseen veil between them had dissipated. An hour passed easily, aided by good wine, conversation, and the gentle rustling of the breeze through the grotto. Servants cleared away the food and brought desserts, dainty cakes, spiced pastries, berry tarts. 

The twins were awake once more, and growing ever more restless. Kíli suggested setting them down. Tauriel looked to Thranduil, as if asking permission. 

The Elvenking looked about, as if uncertain, then slowly nodded. "There isn't much in here that they might harm," he said, still scanning the little grotto, then seemed to rethink the words. "Or that might harm them. Nothing heavy or very sharp."

Tauriel gave him a grateful smile, wondering at his readiness to think of her children's safety. It was more than she had imagined could happen in her lifetime.

That being said, there was a good chance the Elvenking underestimated what the twins were capable of when it came to mischief. The two of them toddled off to inspect their new playground, eyes wide with delight at the beautiful colors and interesting smells around them. As Tauriel had mentally predicted, it wasn't long before the twins were sampling the flowers. Gathien made a face and offered the hapless lily to her brother. Birgir tried it and seemed to agree it wasn't palatable before trying it again. 

Kíli chuckled into his sleeve, and Tauriel noticed Thranduil also looked uncharacteristically amused, a spark of mirth in his ancient, ageless gaze. 

"They will learn," the Elvenking said softly, nodding knowingly. 

Tauriel tried to stifle a smile. "Was the prince like that, when he was small?" She asked the question on a whim, and was surprised when a voice answered from behind her. 

"I most certainly was not." 

Tauriel twisted in her seat, and huffed softly in welcome amazement when she saw the speaker. "Legolas!"

"You most certainly _were_," Thranduil replied calmly, looking not in the least bit surprised. 

Legolas stood in the space between two overgrown grape arbors, still in his travel garb, his cloak tattered and stained at the hem. He looked... older. Somehow. Tauriel wasn't sure she liked it. But he also seemed more content, more self-assured, in the manner of one who had found purpose. 

"You're alright, Mellon?" the elleth asked, getting up from her chair to face him. "You're not hurt?"   

Legolas shook his head. "Not much. I'll recover soon enough." He'd only just started to step forward into the grotto when they both saw the same thing - or at least, they reacted at the same time. Kíli was halfway to the twins already, and Tauriel felt like she'd left her stomach at the table as she lunged after him. A flash of red through the sunlight as Gathien, eager little thing, fell from where she'd been teetering on her tender feet, attempting to reach something above her head. Kíli made a wild dive, while Tauriel and Legolas reached Birgir at the same moment. Almost with the same breath, the twins started to wail. Not cry, with tears and screaming, but simple wailing. They were startled by the fuss, and scared. 

The three exhaled in palpable relief, despite the twins' upset. Kíli was on his knees, where he'd slid in his last-ditch effort to catch Gathien. 

"I hope it was worth it, little one," he said teasingly, a little out of breath as he retrieved the small red leaf from his daughter's hand, resting her over his shoulder. 

Tauriel and Legolas exchanged a glance over Birgir, who was still visibly upset, and wanted to be picked up, too. Legolas' slender fingers steadied the wobbly little boy as he inspected the elf prince.

"Hold him a minute, if you like." Tauriel smiled, noting Kíli had returned to his seat with the softly sniffling Gathien, and Thranduil was still looking on with amusement. 

Legolas looked uncertain, but only for a moment. Birgir squirmed insistently, and out of some instinct that Tauriel found herself appreciating, the prince pulled the little one close to his chest to support him. Tauriel smiled and stood, leading the way back to the table with half an eye on Legolas, who seemed more comfortable with a baby in his arms than she had ever imagined. Really,  _ had _ she ever imagined it? She sat down, watching Birgir chew on a lock of the prince's blonde hair, and concluded that she hadn't, in fact, ever imagined any such thing.

She and Kíli locked eyes a moment, his deep chocolate gaze moving then to study the rest of her face and expression, as if committing them to memory. She thought, maybe, he'd seldom seen her looking so perfectly happy. She reached out with her free arm, fingers gently brushing his bearded cheek. In that moment, she felt a great resurgence of the feeling that had developed when she'd been sure he was leaving her, that fierce, desperate love like a twisting in her gut. This was her husband, her  _ family _ . This was where she belonged, sure as starlight, and she knew she could never again regret the choice she'd made. 

"Tauriel?" Legolas' voice was slightly strained. She looked at him quickly, and saw the problem immediately. Her son was apparently relieving himself on the elf prince's arm.

She looked at Kíli, and couldn't help but laugh.

"I don't think it's very funny," muttered Legolas. 

"Neither did I, when it was you." Thranduil was smiling.

"Give him here. I have clean things back in the room." Tauriel took her son, and with a light heart even the smell of a soiled diaper couldn't darken, she walked back through the halls, thinking of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, my friends, is The End. 
> 
> We are glad to have been able to provide so much entertainment to you all, and while we are sorry to see this wonderful story end, this is not the last you will hear either of me or of Lady Loki. You may expect to see more of us in the future (preferably after I finish settling into my new home). :) Until then, fare well wherever you fare, and may the winds ever bear you to your nest in safety at the day's ending.


End file.
